


This Bird You Cannot Change

by flannelcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ABO Big Bang, Alpha Dean, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - High School, Angsty Schmoop, Biting, Complete, First Time, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Marking, Mates, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Castiel, Schmoop, True Mates, first heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:06:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2358977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raised in a household in which alpha superiority is indisputable, Castiel Novak has very little insight into the lives and struggles of omegas. Though he is far more sympathetic than his family, he is a beta who cares very little about the alpha/omega dynamic. His paradigm shifts radically during a school-sponsored ski trip, when he discovers he is not as excluded from that dynamic as he previously thought.</p><p>To complicate things, Castiel stumbles upon his true nature while rooming with an alpha. But, Dean Winchester is not a typical alpha—that is discernible by his highly intoxicating scent alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cupidwithapistol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupidwithapistol/gifts).



> Shout out to Kenzie, my muse and my drill sergeant when it came to this fic. You're the greatest!
> 
> I'm adding more of an author's note because I was in a rush yesterday to just get it posted. But hello guys! Thanks for stopping by to read this fic that has been a WIP for way too long. There will be an epilogue so be sure to subscribe to the fic as I will be adding the epilogue as soon as it's polished up! It's more like a timestamp but... whatever! It will tie up any loose ends you think may exist at the end.

The school bus smells of spilt hot cocoa and gasoline, and is bitterly cold. As the enormous machine jerks forward—doubtlessly due to a pothole and not (hopefully) due to their driver’s incompetence—Castiel’s fingers cling to the space under his seat. Since they are gloved, they slip easily and his body smacks against the side of the bus. He hisses when his head cracks against the glass window.

“Careful, Clarence!” Meg Masters calls across the aisle, who glances at his tense, disheveled state with a red-lipstick smirk.

Castiel bites back the urge to growl at Meg. She infuriates him with her (so called) harmless teasing, yet she is his friend. One of his only friends, in fact, and he likes her. She is a tame beta who long ago (sophomore year, perhaps) halted in her feeble attempts to lure him into her bed. Although Castiel was certainly never going to pursue an omega (and, culturally, being with an alpha was out of the question), Meg wasn’t the right kind of beta. He preferred muscled bodies and sharp jawlines.

But he still likes her, as a friend. Most of the time. Perhaps not now.

In response, Castiel huffs and slides down in his seat, pressing his knees into the seat in front of him. Pinned like this, maybe he won’t slide all over the goddamned bus. “Thank you for your concern, Meg, but there is no being careful,” he snaps at her. He waves a hand vaguely. “This bus is a death trap.”

She laughs. “You act like you’ve never rode a school bus.”

“I haven’t.”

And he hasn’t. Castiel was homeschooled through elementary school, and by the time his mother put him in junior high, his brother Gabriel had his license and drove him everyday. So, no, he never had the inclination to ride a school bus.

Meg recovers her expression (it was shocked, then judgmental) and presses her lips tight. “Well, you oughta get used to it. We can’t take your family’s private jet to the slopes every weekend.”

“My family doesn’t have—” he starts, and then lets the sentence die out. And with that, their conversation fizzles as well when Castiel jerks his gaze to gaze out the window. An old snow covers the grass, and the view became one filled with steep hills and mountains. The bus begins to drive at an incline.

Despite the regrettable mode of transportation, Castiel has been excited for this trip. The bag wedged between his propped-up knees holds his ski gear, which has been very well used in recent years. The Novak family often takes retreats to Denver, where they “bond” at the resort and go to the slopes. He’s grown quite a talent for skiing.

So, due to a lack of a high school resume for college applications, joining the school’s ski club seemed to be the most logical thing to do. Meg already being in the club was merely a benefit of that decision, and it prevented him from backing out last minute.

After a few more minutes of the bus tossing them all around like a rag doll (did anyone ever maintenance these roads?) they finally arrive at the ski resort. Excitement buzzes around them, especially when the bus finally stops. Castiel’s stomach can finally stop doing backflips and he can sit upright without fear of tumbling into the aisle.

Meg gathers her bags quickly and efficiently and Castiel clumsily follows her lead. He stands and slings an arm back so that he can slide on the strap of his duffle bag. What he doesn’t take into account is there are people around him and that he might hit them—

And he does, to his utmost embarrassment. His knuckles smack right into something that feels like a jacket, so there is most likely no harm done. Still, he turns around, and apologizes.

“I didn’t see you there,” he says with a deep breath, blinking as the boy he hit smiles lopsidedly. He is younger, maybe a sophomore.

“It’s no problem, man,” he replies, offering an even wider smile that makes Castiel falter. He isn’t accustomed to people being nice to him. He opens his mouth to introduce himself—it would be the prudent thing to do, mother would say—but Meg slaps him on the shoulder.

“Come on, Clarence. Gotta get our room assignments!”

Castiel waves his hand shortly at the boy and grips onto his ski gear, making his way off the bus beside Meg.

 

* * *

 

Coach Henriksen is not a skier. He’s actually the football coach who, during off-season, is forced to chaperone the skiers to Lakewood Heights in the winter and early spring. He does not enjoy it, but rumor has it that after he’s checked all the rooms at night, he gets wasted in his hotel room.

Though he isn’t sure the rumor is true, as its only source is Meg, a perpetual gossip.

The club crowds around Henriksen as he flips through the papers on his clipboard. Meg is on her cellphone and Castiel watches the clouds roll over the mountains.

Henriksen blows his whistle to gain the club’s attention, and then goes over basic rules. “Follow the itinerary, don’t break curfew, don’t sneak out of the rooms, and don’t have sex.” He clutches his clipboard tight, and points it at the group.

“On the subject of the last rule,” Henriksen adds, “You numb-skull alpahs don’t need to be popping any knots, you hear me? Keep it locked up tight.”

Meg snorts and nudges Castiel’s elbow. “Yeah, there aren’t any omegas in the club, thank fuck,” she says quietly. “Otherwise Winchester and his crew would be tapping all kinds of ass this weekend.”

“Dean Winchester is nice,” Castiel objects and purses his lips, finding the alpha among the group. He is currently rolling his eyes at Henriksen’s remark. For an alpha, Castiel has always found Dean quite tame. He plays for their lacrosse team and snowboards in the club, but never gets into trouble, unlike his friends. He’s had many classes with Dean throughout high school and has never overheard him making typical objectifying comments about omegas needing a knot, or throwing around slurs that make Castiel cringe.

“Aw, gotta defend the little alpha’s honor?” Meg coos.

“Nothing of the sort. I’m just keeping you honest. Running your mouth is really not attractive on you.” Castiel narrows his eyes and then shifts his gaze back toward Henriksen.

“...and since we got some members out with the flu, I had to rearrange the room assignments. If you aren’t with your requested roommate, well tough shit. Don’t complain. And no switching, or I will hunt you down…” Henriksen huffs and flips his papers around and holds them up in the sun, squinting.

And then he begins listing of names in pairs. Castiel originally signed up to room with a boy from his math class, whom he knows only vaguely, Samandriel, but his name is read off beside a name that is not ‘Castiel’. He grows nervous, uncertain, and then dreads the moment when his name is finally read.

“Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester, come up and get your room key.”

The fear drains away immediately, upon hearing that he would be rooming with Dean. He is nice, Castiel thinks, even though the extent of their acquaintance began and ended when Dean once borrowed a pencil in the ninth grade.

Castiel drags his things through the crowd and Henriksen hands him his room key, and Dean accepts his seconds later. Their eyes meet and its a fumbling greeting, Dean offering him a polite smile and Castiel tried his best not to awkwardly gawk. Because. Well. Dean’s eyes are awfully green and his smile is so bright. He finds his cheeks feeling hot and will not stand to let Dean Winchester see him blush. For what? Because he’s attractive? That would never happen. They could never happen. Male alphas and betas do not think of each other like that. It’s wrong.

He looks away and begins walking toward the ski resort entrance, eager to set his heavy bags down and just ski. Hitting the slopes, get out his frustrations, and emptying his mind of these foolish thoughts seems like the only viable option, if he must spend the entire weekend with the alpha.

 

* * *

 

The sound of Dean throwing his body onto his mattress startles Castiel. Dean chuckles, rolling onto his side so that his eyes meet Castiel's. "Sorry dude. Bus rides just really make me wanna press the snooze button."

Castiel purses his lips, uncertain how to respond to the peculiar turn of phrase Dean was using. "Well, I recommend you do not snooze on the slopes. That could be painful." It's meant to be humor, but it comes out deadpan, and Castiel feels his face heat. Hands shaking slightly, he sets his back on the foot of the bed and sits down on his own mattress. "I didn't mean to sound..."

"Like my mom?" Dean says, light and—dare Castiel say it—playful. Castiel looks over to see a wolfish grin spread across the alpha's face. "No, I gotcha. Orientation is in like, 20 minutes. Since this ain't my first rodeo I think I'm just gonna take a nap. Meet the rest of you guys at the slopes at three."

"Orientation?" Castiel asks. "Surely I must be exempt. I'm actually very proficient at skiing already."

"Oh yeah? Well. I guess you could hang out in here, if you really don't wanna go. And take it from a veteran of that thing, you don't wanna go. The instructor Zack is a dick. Apparently he was supposed to rep America at the Winter Olympics a zillion years ago but some other dude out-skied him. Dude's bitter as hell."

"That sounds very unpleasant."

Dean huffs a breathless laugh. "Uh, yeah." Then he rolls off the bed and toes out of his tennis shoes, kicking up the bedspread in the process. He climbs beneath the sheets fully dressed and closes his eyes. "You can watch TV or whatever. Nothing can keep me awake when I'm trying to sleep."

The offer is tempting, makes Castiel want to curl up in the bed, put the TV on the food channel. Dean has already closed his eyes, and Castiel fleetingly wonders if counting the freckles across the alpha's nose would be more entertaining than Cupcake Wars.

That thought suddenly unnerves him, and he rises from the bed too fast. His head spins and he catches his balance on the nightstand, mortified when he sees that Dean is watching him.

"I," he begins, tongue heavy and cheeks red with embarrassment. "Meg will be wondering I am."

"You and Masters?" Dean asks.

Castiel doesn't particularly understand the sharp, judgmental tone his voice takes.

"I don't understand what you're asking, but she will be expecting me. Wherever she is." He huffs and collects himself, still blushing when he'd rather be sticking his head in the snow. "I will see you at the slopes, Dean."

Dean rolls onto his side, curling into an extra pillow—cuddling it. "Yeah, yeah. Bye Cas."

After he makes sure that the hotel key is secured in the back of his lanyard, right behind his ski pass, Castiel exits their room and closes the door quietly behind him.

It's only when he takes a breath of fresh air—fresh as a public resort can have—that Castiel registers the thrumming of his heart beneath his ribs. He clenches his teeth, willing his heart to stop with this ridiculous racing, and makes a valiant effort not to wonder why.

While Dean's alpha scent was absent in the hallway, Castiel can still feel it hanging in his nostrils as he walks. If he's honest with himself, it's simply intoxicating. Amazing. Exquisite. Though he knows full and well that, as a beta, he should not be able to detect alpha scent at all. Sure, everyone knows what a rut smells like, but when hormones are balanced, betas don't usually smell the difference between betas and alphas and omegas. That's just how it is—except for Castiel. But he's never been quite as affected by any alpha’s scent.

Before he can ponder the meaning of that, Castiel finds himself in the resort lobby. He squints as he peers around, interest piqued by a small cafe on the far side of the lobby, just passed the check-in desk. Curiosity is replaced by relief when he finds Meg sitting in a lounge chair, magazine spread across her lap as she sips from a glass mug.

"Meg," he says loud enough to startle her, causing her drink—her hot drink—to slush over the sides of her mug.

"Shit! Cas, what did I tell you about sneaking up on me? Motherfucking shit." She squirms out of her sweatpants wet and magazine dripping as she winces. Still alarmed, she raises her eyes to Castiel's and glares. "You're buying me a new coffee, Clarence." It's definitely not a request, but Castiel does see some fault in her discomfort and general wetness.

"Yes, your majesty," he still can't resist murmuring.

"Fuck you!"

 

* * *

 

Castiel did not expect so much white.

Not that Kansas was typically immune to snow, and not that he wasn't expecting heaps of snow to cover the mountainside of the Kansas peaks when he joined the ski club, but.

It's just stunning.

The groaning of the lift coming to life and the subsequent jerk of his seat as it rocks on its hinges is what pulls Castiel from his daydream.

In some ways, this artificial winter wonderland is more beautiful than the Denver mountains, where the snowfall on the peaks is accompanied by frankly bitter temperatures and clouded skies.

"Earth to Castiel!" Meg says, dramatically waving her hand in front of his eyes like mere wonderment could cause temporary blindness. He glares at her, squinting as he raises his own hand to cover the sunlight. They were going to be skiing right into the sunset, it seemed.

"You know your goggles are tinted." Meg presses her lips together, and she is obviously amused.

"So you said, when you convinced me to rent them." Castiel taps those goggles that are currently strapped against his forehead. "And I will tell you what I told you at the rental, I don't need them."

"I can't believe you've actually skied," she deadpans. "You'll need them just like you'll need a binky when I kick your ass. The sun reflecting off the snow, even at the end of the day, is pretty fucking bright."

Castiel sighs, idly peering over the edge of the lift. They are very high up, he notes. Not as if heights have ever bothers him.

"This isn't a competition, Meg," he reminds her softly, as if tutting a child. "This is a team event. My ass shall go unscathed, nonetheless."

"You're deceivingly assholish," she notes.

Castiel rolls his eyes, letting the insult blow off his skin as a gust of wind torrents from above, rocking the lift. Quick, Castiel grabs the rail while pinning his skis between his knees.

At this, Meg laughs. "Baby."

 

* * *

 

When he slips of the lift, his feet hit the slope at a precise angle that causes a jolt of adrenaline to course through his veins. Which is completely foreign, as his reaction to the sport has always been relaxation. He blinks, reveling in the sensation before a burst of enthralled laughter bubbles off his lips. He lifts his skis, bends his knees, and wills himself to go faster. That rush, the tingle of his skin—hot blood against the cool snow slushing out from beneath his feet—is addicting.

He doesn't even bother to wait up for Meg; all he can see is white ahead, and skiers behind.

He inhales, and then his breath hitches, a peculiar scent begging him to survey his surroundings. It is then that he comes back down from his high, only a little, and he sees Dean Winchester.

The alpha is mostly stunned in the wake of Castiel's speed skiing, but there is no ignoring the slow churning fire that burns on his features. The goggles strapped across his face conceal his eyes, but Castiel feels a pang of knowing, especially when Dean smirks at the challenge

Castiel has challenged him, yet he smiles.

Dean Winchester is most certainly not the typical alpha male, threatened by the most tame of betas. Society had progressed, mostly, beyond the stratified genders and the problems accompanied by inequalities, but even so alphas tend to be, honestly, knotheads. Dean is an exception to the rule, however, and it makes Castiel’s fondness swell almost exponentially.

Be it distraction, or mere lack of skill (which he would rather argue neither) Castiel’s balance begins to fumble. He moves his skis and pulls his legs together, trying to slow the velocity at which he was moving down the slope. He twists his knee the exact wrong way and he tumbles feet over head, his skis flying out from beneath his feet as his back slams into the snow.

His body doesn’t stop rolling immediately, and his body clenches and pulls in so that he’s mostly in a ball, protected from the debris that lay in the snow. Once he finally comes to a stop, Castiel flops on his back and groans, blinking up into the too-bright sky. Tiredly, he flips his goggles over his eyes. At least they may conceal the embarassment welling in his eyes.

“Whoa! Are you okay?”

The body hovering over him was, unmistakably, Dean. To Castiel’s dismay, the alpha grasps him by the forearm and pulls him up, brushes the powdery snow from Castiel’s sleeve. Castiel sniffs, embarrassment only aiding the strong urge to cry. He didn’t even hurt that badly. He has had worse falls while skiing. Perhaps it was the reason for which he fell: he was distracted by Dean’s smirk and Dean speeding behind him on his snowboard to catch up.

Behind his goggles, Dean doesn’t know that Castiel is staring at him with doe eyes.

If only to distract himself, Castiel rubs his palm down his arm, the one which most likely took the greatest weight of his fall. It throbs beneath his fingers at the touch, and he hisses between his teeth.

“I’m fine,” Castiel answers belatedly, squinting back up at Dean.

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, sure. You look like you were thrown in the wash on spin-cycle. We oughta, you know, get out of the way—so we don’t get run over.”

It is a valid point, but Castiel has a particular dislike for being told what is best for him, so he frowns despite his giving in to Dean’s suggestion. Since the slope is artificial, the area that isn’t strictly made for skiing fades from mush and mud to strictly a dirt trail that will lead back up the mountain to the resort.

They walk beside each other for perhaps two minutes, before Castiel realizes he never picked up his gear. He freezes, turning to run back. “I didn’t get my—”

“Hey,” Dean stops him, smirking as he turns his back to Castiel. He has strapped Castiel’s alpines in the same pouch in which Dean stores his snowboard. “Got it, man.”

“I can carry them,” he objects. His equipment isn’t exactly light.

“No way, I can handle it. If we keep moving that is.” Dean nods his head, indicating that they should keep walking. Short of just taking Dean’s bag, Castiel isn’t going to be carrying his things up the slope anytime soon. He sighs, lengthening his strides—oh, and a surprise throb of pain follows—to catch up with Dean. He falls in step with the alpha, taking a breath that is potent with the recognizable scent of alpha—of Dean.

He licks his lips, dried out from the brisk temperature and windy character of the ski slope. Castiel, for one, should not taste those pheromones when his tongue touches the air. That heady, salt-like scent should not invade his senses, nor his mind. Yet his very thoughts are growing continuously numb and he wants—no, he needs—more.

"Hey, Cas, you sure you're alright? You're kinda sweaty."

Any primal desire is nipped in the bud at Dean's remark, and Castiel flushes from embarrassment. Yes, he feels beads gathering on his forehead, weighing down the roots on his scalp as his bangs mat against his forehead. He sniffs, wiping his sleeve, wet with melted snow, across his cheek. "I may be ill," he murmurs back. Maybe Dean isn't as distracting as he seems; dizziness could have been the cause of his fall (he thinks this, only hoping it's true).

Dean frowns and rolls his shoulders, readjusting the weight of his pack on his shoulders. "Ah, yeah, I don't think you should take another trip down the slope."

"Oh, I shouldn't?" There comes Castiel's sharp annoyance, provoked by Dean's alpha-headedness invading their interactions.

"Not telling you what to do, man, but you might be able to enjoy the trip a lot more if you just sleep off what you got now. Come tomorrow you and I can even have a proper race, huh?" He smirks, glancing at Castiel like he knows any hostility has been rendered null.

"Mhm," Castiel considers the offer. And then he offers Dean a rare smirk before replying flatly, "How I would enjoy winning against you."

"Why, 'cause I'm an alpha?"

"No, because you're good. Considerably better than anyone else, I've heard. And I don't think I could endure another moment of this trip without a true challenge."

Dean laughs out loud at that, shaking his head. "Man, I think if Masters heard you say that, she'd rip you a new one."

"Well," Castiel murmurs, then shrugs. "She'd have to catch me first."

 

* * *

 

It is all manner of overprotective, how Dean escorts Castiel to the infirmary, towing his things. It is dangerously atypical, the carefulness of Dean's words, his movements. Like Castiel may judge him to be something he is not.

What Castiel doesn't understand is why Dean would think he has anything to prove. For one, Castiel is a beta. Betas are not culturally subservient as, unfortunately, omegas are viewed; neither are they perceived as overly talented or strong. They are merely the buffer between the alpha/omega dynamic that has ruled society since the beginning of time.

And, honestly, Castiel is content in being excluded from the dynamic. His mother and three older brothers—Michael, Luke, and Gabriel—are all alphas. Being a beta left him excluded from their drama, which made him unarguably happy.

So, Dean's kind yet posturing nature throws him through a loop.

“What’d the nurse say?” Dean asks as he stands up from the couch outside the examination room. Castiel’s stride actually stutters when he finds that Dean waited for him. Although the examination was brief, he feels a pang of guilt for Dean losing time on the ski trip.

“She wants me to ‘take a breather’,” Castiel adjusts his thick jacket onto his other arm, rolling down his sleeve. The nurse, upon seeing his parlor, wanted to take his blood pressure. “In addition to my injuries, she believes that I may be contracting some sort of virus; my body temperature is elevated.”

Dean grimaces. “That blows. So you gonna go back to the room?”

“I am fatigued… I think it would be best,” Castiel says slowly, dropping his eyes shamefully. One fall on the first day of their trip, and he’s out for the count. It’s utterly embarrassing. Dean doesn’t react cruelly, though. Instead he accepts the answer with a heavy, disappointed nod.

“I’d hang out with you up there, but I promised Sam—my brother—I’d take him to dinner at that steak place in the lobby. He’s probably waiting for me now.” Dean glances down at his watch, then frowns. “Yeah, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Dean, you have been far too… accommodating already. I hardly know you.”

“Well, we’ve gone to school together for ages,” says Dean with a shrug. “I hate leaving people hanging when they need help, or just some company.”

“I’ll be fine,” Castiel chuckles, his face warming as he lifts his eyes shyly to meet Dean’s, just as the alpha licks his lips fully. It makes Castiel’s blush even deeper, which causes all humor to evaporate from his features. No, he will not feel that way for an alpha. Not now, not ever. “Do you have my alpines…?”

For a moment, Dean seems to have a lapse in thought, then his shoulders jerk and his backpack is sliding off one shoulder. He winces at the drop of weight, so Castiel rushes over to relieve his own luggage from the straps. Dean has the same idea, his hand reaching to unbuckle the equipment, and their fingers brush—no, they mesh, and Castiel finds his fingers suddenly pressed into the spaces between Dean’s.

“Sorry,” he says automatically before ripping his hand away.

Dean snorts and shakes his head. “S’fine, man,” he answers, and then Castiel’s skis are freed; Dean secures his snowboard before donning his backpack once again. “I’ll see you tonight, Cas. Feel better.”

“I’ll try.” Castiel swallows hard around the lump in his throat, which only seems to dissipate when Dean is out of site. His eyes fall shut. He cannot decide if it is because he wishes to sleep, or if he wishes not to be seen. Even though the latter is irrational, it has always calmed his nerves in the past.

Shoving the thoughts of Dean and his confusing feelings toward the alpha away, Castiel walks back up to his hotel room, carrying both equipment in one arm as he checks his cellphone. As he could have expected, the screen is filled with notifications of text messages and voicemails, all of which (except one, a chain text from Gabriel) are from Meg.

 

_TO: Castiel_

_FROM: Meg M._

_> Where the fck r u?_

 

_TO: Meg M._

_FROM: Castiel_

_> Sick. Going to stay in my room the rest of the night :/_

 

 

In the minutes that pass leading up to Castiel reaching his hotel room door, his phone beeps another alert.

 

_TO: Castiel_

_FROM: Meg M._

_> ur a whimp. I’m gonna get u tomorrow, and ur little alpines too._

 

At that, Castiel smiles.

 

_TO: Meg M._

_FROM: Castiel_

_> I am counting on that_

The darkness of the hotel room and the large bed is so inviting that Castiel lays down, only bothering to kick off his thicker layers of clothing and his shoes before crawling into bed. He’s still in sweatpants and a tshirt, which is fine; a shiver pulls down his spine like the nerves are being peeled from his insides. Cold. He tucks himself within the sheets, and the darkness behind his eyelids consumes his conscious mind before he can read Meg’s next reply, if she ever sends one.

 

* * *

 

Castiel wakes up drenched, like he is a washrag thrown into a soapy sink, forgotten. Wakefulness doesn’t come fast, though, like being submerged underwater. It drizzles through his thoughts; he is first aware of how wet his face is, his disheveled hair laying flat against his forehead as his cheek buried into the (also wet, he realizes later) pillowcase. He feels the same soaked sensation throughout the rest of his body as his eyes open. The armpits of his shirt and his stomach are the wettest, it seems, until he adjusts.

Hot, vivid embarrassment floods his cheeks as he feels the wetness in his boxers. There is stirring pleasure in his body, so it may not be the product of a wet dream—maybe it’s worse. Castiel opens his eyes into the darkness as he rolls onto his back, feeling the wetness ooze down the backs of his thighs. He surely didn’t wet the bed, it’s not absorbing as urine would into his sweatpants.

The shame of that possibility brings him to full consciousness, at which point, he feels discomfort stirring in the depths of his stomach. His muscles begin to spasm as he pushes up on his elbows so that he can sit up. The press of his hips into the mattress for traction elicits a—a strange sensation. It makes him whimper despite himself. It feels...so good.

Castiel doesn’t dare move, but brings his palmy hands to his face. He is trembling, as he wipes the sweat-thick hair from his eyes; a mixture of confusion and fear and shameful pleasure bubble over his thoughts, and he is suddenly aware of a mattress’ springs groaning. Not his own mattress, no. He’s perfectly still right now.

“Cas?” comes a barely-awake voice a few feet to Castiel’s right. He bites his lower lip and forces himself beneath the sheets, covering his disgusting body. Nose tucked beneath the edge of the quilt, he inhales and he can smell himself. His exhale is shaken, terrified, because the scent is not foreign. He smells it on omegas, the hormones and the slick, the distress. All things that a beta shouldn’t notice, he was keen to. And, of course, Dean can smell it, and that makes him all the more embarrassed—and afraid.

If he is—if he...and Dean’s an alpha—

Danger rolls of Castiel’s skin in waves, a warning, a biological reflex encoded into his DNA. A light flips on—the lamp situated on the nightstand between their beds—and Castiel closes his eyes tightly. Maybe he can pretend that he doesn’t exist, like a chameleon. Unlikely, yet he curls deeper within himself, only making his own stink more potent. The smell of fear grows exponentially on his skin.

“Holy fuck, Cas, you’re—” Dean starts, his voice rough and matching Castiel’s own confusion.

After his words stammer to a halt, Castiel peers from beneath the quilt, his eyes filled with horror. “Don’t,” he says, and partly he is telling Dean to stop talking, partly telling Dean to stop. Dean may not notice, but Castiel certainly sees how he moves closer, inch by inch. It’s his alpha subconscious, he knows it.

“What?” Dean croaks, eyebrows pushing together.

Castiel glares, feigning something that is definitely not fear.“Don’t state the obvious, do not come near me.” The last demand comes off his lips as a growl—an unbidden, primitive growl. He shuts his eyes again and shudders, a chill running up his spine. It’s not from cold, but from the smell of Dean. He smells like alpha, heady and thick, like salted brine from the ocean mixed with a homemade pie. It would be comforting, if it weren’t mixed with the distinct scent of worry, and the barely-there tang of arousal.

Even though the latter is fractional, it still shatters any residual hope that Dean was different than the other alphas. His lower lip begins to tremble as he pushes back on his forearms, making a poor attempt to distance himself from Dean. There is one door, and one pane of windows, all of which would be impossible to reach. Castiel is fit, but he could not outrun an alpha. Tendrils of dark, paralytic fear wrap themselves around his lungs, force his breaths to come quicker, harder.

Dean throws his hands up and backs away, sitting back on the edge of his bed. Still, worry fills his expression—the concern of his threaded brows, the grimace pulling down on his lips

“I’m sorry,” Dean blurts, dropping his hands to his legs. His nails scrape down his thighs, finding a resting place on his kneecaps. “I know, I—I didn’t know you were.” He gestures to Castiel, eyes shutting as he pulls the word from his lips, painfully. “An...omega.”

Castiel hums uncomfortably, biting his lower lip as he feels tears sting his eyes. Any other life, perhaps the mere sound of the word wouldn’t unthread his sanity. He has been constantly told that one can be no lower than an omega. They are as good as property; in fact, that is all they are good for. That is what his alpha heritage has taught him.

Biology has failed him, Castiel thinks as one, then two tears spill down his cheeks.

“That small detail escaped me as well,” he tells Dean, miserable sounding as he closes his eyes for a brief moment. It is long enough to collect himself before heaving a sigh, but not too long that fear would blossom over him.

“So this is your first…”

“Yes.”

Dean nods shortly, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “I can leave, if you, I don’t know. Just, tell me what to do.”

Castiel squints. “Do not come near me,” he supplies. “And stop smelling like you want to—like you want to knot me,” he mutters hurriedly, curling within himself. Dean scent still runs over him, all manner of distressed, or at least as much as an alpha could be. It’s probably some perverted sense of protectiveness, as if Castiel is Dean’s to protect.

His thoughts stutter, thinking of the day prior—is it morning? or night?—at the slopes. Could Dean smell this coming on before Castiel ever had the inkling of what he was? That would explain his proximity, his good-samaritan behavior. He knew, Castiel decides with a distinct pang of betrayal burning up his throat.

“I do not—” Dean starts, disrupting Castiel thoughts. “I don’t wanna do that to you!”

“Then don’t smell like you do!”

“Hey, you’re the one who smells fucking amazing,” he huffs, then snaps his lips shut and winces. “Damn it, I’m sorry, I—shit, I just need to go.” He nods once. “Yeah, I need to get some air. Unmated omega plus an alpha, never a good idea.” Dean mutters the last breath of words, and their tainted with shame masked in annoyance, that much Castiel perceives.

“Perhaps you should,” Castiel says in a worn voice.

At Castiel’s agreement, Dean rises to his feet slowly, but doesn’t leave, but worries at his lower lip. He appears to be trying non-threatening, which is contradicted by the flex of his arms as he draws them tight across his chest. Even the muscle boundaries of his necks are evident as he strains to lower his chin submissively. Dean walks in front of Castiel’s bed quickly and exits the hotel room after three more strides.

Then, Castiel can breath again. Though, his lungs fill, not with clean air, but his own disgusting heat scent, and the smell of an alpha.

He is overcome by a primal urge to dive into the scent, bury himself in Dean’s bedspread so that he may consume every bit of it that hangs in the air. And that desire is only second to the even more terrifying want to bury his nose in Dean’s neck, scent him like he is a bed of summer flowers.

Castiel curls up on himself, wrapping his arms tight around his torso. On his forearms he feels where the sweat has soaked through his tshirt and resists the urge to strip out of the damp, cold fabric. Definitely not going to happen, not in this strange place, where predators wait. Maybe not Dean, but there are others. Others with no control, violent alphas who can smell an unmated omega miles away. He fears those gazes, like the ones he has seen in the halls, on the streets. Television is a frightening insight into the sex crimes committed against omegas.

The door clicks open, making Castiel flinch, but he sees it is only Dean. He has a halo of light around him from the hallway light.

“Close the door.” He means to phrase it as a request, but it comes out a whisper that Dean heads quickly, shutting the door behind him.

“Do you want me to get Mr. Henriksen?”

“No!” Castiel straightens and uncurls, shaking his head. No one can know about this, not—not now. Maybe never. He is shame-ridden for what he is, what he has apparently always been. It explains why he has never fit into the mold of his alpha family—not because he is a simple beta, but because he is essentially property.

A panicky voice within drowns out every other rational thought—that his brothers love him, that even his strict mother would never forsake him—and it pleads Castiel to resist all attempts to be sold, to be bought, to be owned.

Castiel swallows around the lump in his throat and repeats himself, “No. Please don’t tell him. Don’t tell anyone.” He is pathetically weak-sounding, so he squints hard at Dean to feign strength he doesn’t exactly possess.

Dean sways on his feet, the hard lines on his muscles defining as he crosses his arms. “I won’t,” he murmurs in a rugged voice that sounds like a tentative promise. “But you can’t stay here while you’re—in your state, alright? You can use my phone, if you don’t got one.” Before even waiting for a response from Castiel, he slips his phone from his pocket and tosses it onto the foot of Castiel’s bed. Then he sighs as he cards a hand through his messy hair (it would smell so good, Castiel thinks in a fleeting wave of hormones). “I’ll just stand over here. I don’t wanna leave you alone—unless you wanna take care of things…”

“Shut up, Dean,” Castiel mumbles acidically. Nothing would be ‘taken care of’, not now, maybe not ever. Yes, his member is swollen in a thick line down the inside of his soaked boxers, and the throbbing of blood between his legs really demands some sort of friction, but he is too consumed by shock and disgust to even address the longing, the instinct he can’t satiate. He reaches down the bed and fumbles for Dean’s phone. He types in her number on the glowing screen, but pauses to look up at the alpha before dialing. “You can stay, just, don’t come near me.”

Dean nods, jaw clenched as he presses his back against the wall farthest away from Castiel’s bed and slides to the ground.

With a weight on his tongue, and bile in his throat, Castiel dials his mother.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean cannot sleep in that room; in fact, he can’t seem to rid his own skin of the smell of heat. After Castiel leaves, he takes two showers and steals some of Benny Lafitte’s too-big clothes, clothes that at least hadn’t been sitting in a hotel room that was thick with the smell. Dean stays out of that room for a long time, mostly finding solace in the dry smell of the cool mountains. He liked how the bitterness of the wind ebbed at his sense of smell, so that he could pretend like he didn’t smell his own shameful residual arousal.

That is what really has Dean’s mind in a tailspin. Yes, he is completely shocked that the smart and quaint Castiel, a beta he’s known for years, is actually an omega. But, in Dean’s mind, that changes very little. What does dig its way through his thoughts is that Dean can’t make the want stop. Two showers later and complete evacuation from the infectious and wonderful smelling sheets of Cas’s bed… and his knot is still ashamedly swollen beneath his sweats.

When the sun begins to rise, signaling that Dean has in fact been up almost the whole night trying to suppress his hormones, he decides he has no choice but to go back into the hotel room and get dressed. More importantly, he needs to get his snowboard. As he strides down the hallway, he thinks about where his things are. His suitcase is open, clothes strewn across, at the foot of his bed. His snowgear is by the nightstand—he thinks. His snowboard is definitely leaning against the unused clothing rail in the closet. Dean hopes that as long as he can grab his shit and get out while holding one, mostly-clean breath, he can escape breathing heat directly from the source.

He hopes that the maid, for his or her sake, is a beta who won’t be so torn apart by the scent.

Dean pauses in front of the door, and rises on the balls of his feet, and then rocks on his heels. It’s a type of swaying that has always eased his nerves, that reminds him of how it feels to be on his board. When gravity gives away for just a moment and his well being demands he find his center of gravity. That’s what he feels now, a sense of calm as he rocks back onto his heels, and then forward again. Calm.

So when he opens the door and takes a deep breath, he runs.

His snow gear is where he left it, shrugged off in a pile in front of the nightstand. He gathers it up in his arms and shoves the articles into his suitcase, zips it up, and drags it—damn, he sure did pack too much shit—with one hand, while the other paws at the closet’s sliding door. He gropes for his board and—yes, there it is.

Only when he’s in the hall, safe and sound, that he realizes that his cell phone is probably still—still laying on Cas’s bed.

It’s really bad, bad idea, but Dean walks right back into the fray. He doesn’t take a breath this time, which was an even worse idea, but he thought he could handle it. He can’t.

As he strides toward Cas’s side of the room, his steps become hazardous. Even though he isn’t making an effort to inhale, the scent tickles at his nose. It sends an alarming amount of electricity up his spine and makes him alert, aware. He’s taken back to the early days of puberty—those days were like hell and heaven combined. Back then the smell of a little omega could make him tremble, come with a simple stroke up his length, a simple squeeze of his knot.

The temptation to touch himself is there, but Dean reminds himself that he is not subject to his urges. He is not an animal, not a slave to biology. Even so, his palms grow sweaty, his body teetering on the edge of wanting to run or rut. But he is resolve to do neither, at least until he gets his goddamned phone.

He finds it, sitting on the nightstand. God help him, it’s dry but he can still smell slick, probably from Cas’s hands, all over it. Dean’s legs shake beneath him and, damn it, he does try, he really tries—

He takes a long, generous breath, nose pressed stupidly against the screen but the scent, it’s right there. And this is more acceptable than rolling around in the slick covered sheets that are only a step away. Way more acceptable, and still intoxicating as far as Dean’s concerned.

 

* * *

 

He spends most of the morning riding the lift. After spending an embarrassing amount of time swimming in the smell of omega heat, he needed a true detox. On the lift, it got colder than it did at ground level. On the lift, the adrenaline that pumps through his veins as the ground becomes smaller and smaller detracts from the attention his brain gives to the mating extinct. Survival takes over, instead, and his gloved fingers grip the guardrail.

Usually snowboarding is a good way to clear his head, but every time his lift comes to that perfect angle of the slope, he can’t will himself to fall off. He’ll go all the way back to the boarding platform and then ride the lift back up, and then down again. The problem is that his thoughts are too muggy, and this lack of focus could be counterproductive. More accurately, painful, if he couldn’t level his thoughts.

Mostly, what he feels is guilt. Dean has always prided himself as being a good alpha. Not that he set out in his life to be the most noble, least instinct-driven alpha in Lawrence, but the desire comes with the territory. His dad, after all, is an omega. He’s seen firsthand how society’s treatment of omegas can take its toll not only on the omega, but his or her family. Dean’s seen his dad bounce from job to job, because he couldn’t hide what he was long enough. He’s seen the looks teachers and other parents give his dad when they learn he’s not just a single father, but a single omega father. Everyone seems to treat him inferior, not because of who he is (a brave, steadfast, good dad) but because of his anatomy. Because of his biology.

Dean refuses to let biology dictate how he is treated, or treats others.

So honestly, the reeling thoughts of Cas’s scent is disgusting. More accurately, Dean is disgusted with himself, how much he still wants to touch himself and think of that scent all around him—

But he’s better than that.

And he spends the next ride up and down the lift trying to convince himself of that fact. When the lift stutters at the platform, a body plunges into the seat next to his. Dean jumps, instinctively clutching his board harder, but the body encroaches upon his personal space faster than he can pull away.

“Where’s Cas?”

Meg Masters is right up in his face, her gloved fingers grabbing ahold of the collar of his coat, pushing him back against the seat. Dean blinks, jaw unhinging as she glares at him like—like she’s going to fucking murder him.

“What, beta got your tongue?” Masters snaps, snide and equally evil-looking as she jerks him again. “Where the hell is my friend? I went into his—your—room and his shit is gone.”

“How did you—” Dean begins to ask, because the rooms take keycards—but he decides the how is moot. He shakes his head once to clear his thoughts, and sets his jaw. “I didn’t do anything to him, he just got sick and went home.”

Her fingertips flick against the side of his neck, taunting—which is pretty damn brazen of her. Dean, despite his better instinct, stills his breath. She must decide he’s telling the truth, even if it’s a half-truth, and lets him go. “I guess I should text his brother, see if he’s okay…” He’s never really see Meg wear a look of concern like this, which just further punctuates how much she cares about Castiel. Which, in turn, is why it’s a really good idea for Meg not to discover the disgusting thoughts he’s been having about her friend.

“Yeah,” Dean encourages her, hoping she misses the nervous crack in his voice. “He was pretty bad off, he might be too sick to answer.”

For a long moment, Dean is very aware of his feet dangling below him, of the brisk wind breathing down the open collar of his jacket. He wedges the board between his knees and zips it up the rest of the way, pulls his hat down tighter. They’re almost to the slope, and if there was a good time to suck it up and fall from the ski lift, it would be now. He bends down to latch his boots in, elbowing Masters in the process. “Sorry,” he murmurs, dropping his eyes.

She smiles at him, and not in that ‘I’m going to kill you slowly’ kind of way, but in a way that suggests she’s endeared by him. “So apologetic for a pretty boy alpha,” she muses, smirk growing. “I’ll beat you to the bottom.”

It takes a beat for Dean to realize that her boots are already strapped to her own board, and she’s falling down into white. Dean feels the relief of competition overwhelm the thoughts bothering him all morning, and tumbles down after her.

 

* * *

 

The following Monday, Castiel doesn’t come to school.

Not that Dean was looking for him, but he is overly aware of the empty spaces Cas usually fills in their high school.

Like, during Dean’s study hall, he always would catch a glimpse of Castiel’ bent over a book at his usual table, the one in front of the window that overlooks the courtyard. Today Dean finds himself staring out that window, the fleeting thought of what Castiel sees in the dimmed natural space where there are more weeds than bricks covering the ground. Eventually the thought becomes less fleeting and more wild, and Dean lugs his textbooks over to that table. No studying gets done, he admits, but his mind seems clearer nonetheless in this different place, acquiring a new perspective.

He also finds himself noticing that he and Cas always had the same lunch time. More often than not, they’d find themselves elbow-to-elbow at the hamburger station, where the lunch lady gave them both a smirk as she snuck them an extra patty on their burgers. The smallest gesture, Dean reflects, as he gets his hamburger and fries by himself, made Cas glow really...really bright.

The absence of that gratitude, Dean muses, has left Dean in a shadow he can’t seem to outrun.

And then there is the empty desk in his Forensics class. The call of Castiel’s name during roll call when no soft-spoken “Here” comes in answer. By the end of the day, Dean is pulling at his hair at the roots, wondering what the hell is wrong with him. How can he miss a guy he barely knows?

After the final bell of the day rings, Dean shoves down the murky feelings and replaces it with solid determination. He hunts the halls, footsteps hrd and his brow furrowed as he looks for Meg Masters. He thinks he sees her, a head of wavy black hair bouncing on confident shoulders, and calls for her, “Hey, Masters! Wait up.” She stops and glances over her shoulder, a smirk arched on the bow of her red lips.

She waves for him, well, it’s more like a beckoning, the way she points at her solidly with an index finger, and then bends it. Dean blinks, and realizes she is motioning him into a classroom. He jogs to meet up with her, and stops when he’s at the mouth of the door.

“Hey there, pretty alpha,” she murmurs in greeting, and looks him up and down.

“Don’t,” he warns, because it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, but that doesn’t mean he likes to hear it. He’s often been told that he’s too pretty to be a real alpha, despite that he does have all the plumbing. Some people say that alphas born of a female alpha male omega are like that, with all the testosterone diluted by the match. Dean doesn’t believe that, though. He isn’t cursed, as many say, to have a omega dad. At least he tells himself as much, when he’s at his most confident. Comments like ‘pretty’ or other alphas saying he’s got omega lips, perfect for taking, those grain at his confidence. It makes him ashamed to be who he is.

The bitterness of his request is lost on Masters, apparently, because she laughs as though she is endeared, and takes a step forward. She runs a hand across his cheek, a touch that his shockingly intimate and Dean resists the urge to curl away.

“What the hell are you doing?” he murmurs, less demanding than he meant to sound. Her eyes darken, and she arches a brow.

“I’m checking on something,” she says. There is a note of curiosity on her breath, which she seems to quench by pressing her lips to Dean’s. He feels himself breathe in, a little too sharply, as his heart begins to hammer against his ribs. Meg deepens the kiss, even though Dean is still stunned by her warm body pressing against his own. Any regular day, he’d be all over this. He hasn’t been oblivious to the sharp curve of her hips, or the smooth bow of her legs when she’s wearing a skirt and has her knees crossed. Meg Masters is gorgeous, in the dangerous way that Dean never even considered pursuing. She’s got a ferocity that could lead any alpha astray, if she only asked them to follow.

Any alpha, Dean thinks, and finds the wrongness of that statement.

It only takes a firm press against her shoulder to break the kiss. Even though Dean’s lips tingle, he doesn’t feel any warmth beyond that. In fact, he feels a sharp wave of longing  beneath his ribs, an echo of his fast-beating heart, but finds that it is not in the least for Meg.

“Enough,” Dean murmurs, surprised that he can actually make words, “I don’t feel that way about you.”

He meant to let her down easy, but didn’t expect any niceties following his rejection.

And he sure as hell didn’t expect for her to smile at him, again.

“I knew it,” she breathes, lips spread from ear to ear. Except, this time, there is no seduction. There is no luring. She punches him in the shoulder, playful and wry, like they are long-time friends. “You are a dirty alpha, aren’t you?”

Dean swallows, confirming the question in his mind, but only answering, “What?”

“You like Castiel, you like a beta.”

“No!” he answers instinctively, because that’s wrong on so many levels. He can’t like a beta, because that’s wrong. Unnatural, for reasons Dean doesn’t know but just are. He also doesn’t like Castiel, at least in the way she accuses. Yeah, the scent of him in heat made him feel more turned on than basically anything before. Which brings him to the third falsehood, that Castiel is a beta.

Don’t tell anyone, Cas plead, so desperate and afraid and soft.  Dean remembers the primal desire he had then, to scoop Cas up and hold him until he calmed down. But that’s exactly what the desire was, primal, and Dean is above that. But he is not above keeping Cas’s secret. Even if Meg  is Cas’s friend...it’s not his secret to tell.

“I barely know Cas,” he says to her, standing straighter. “So I can’t like him, not in the way you’re saying.”

“Come on, no need to be on the defensive, not with me,” she tells him with an eye roll. “I’m the progressive type, you see. Free love and all.”

“Whatever,” Dean mutters, and pushes away from her all-too-close proximity. One wrong move and she might want to experimentally shove her tongue in his mouth. Dean personally doesn’t want to invite that kind of invasion of space again, and the uncomfortable feeling that comes with it. “I—I don’t  want you to get the wrong idea, but I need Cas’s address.”

Meg cocks her head, lifts a brow, and says, “Only if you give Clarence a big kiss for me.”

 

* * *

 

 

In all of his, Castiel has managed to find a positive: that his heats do not seem to last the full seven days.

When he wakes up Thursday morning feeling dry and well-rested, he counts that blessing like it’s the only one he will ever receive.

He take the opportunity to take the first shower he’s had in days. He drenches himself in body wash, and then scrubs the suds away with his luffa until his skin is red and raw. He wants to wash away what he is, but obviously has no success, so he sinks to his knees as the steaming water beats over his back. He tries to forget.

The impossibility of convenient memory loss will be impossible. His biology has dictated his fate. And if there were any hope of his home life going unchanged, it’s completely dissolved now. He remembers the first and second days of his heat, tucked in his room as he resisted the urge to sink his fingers into the slick, its source, and get himself off. His mother came in a few times, mouth curled in disgust as she pinched her nose. She didn’t comment, didn’t comfort him, just handed him food and hot towels to clean himself with.

Even as strict as she is, Castiel always redeemed her in the way she cared for him when he was sick. His colds, the flu, and even that horrible bout of mono were met with compassion and motherly duty. But this time, there wasn’t a warm hand against his neck, a rarely tender voice telling Castiel it would all be okay. 

But not now, he thinks in the saddest part of his mind, what he has isn’t a sickness. It’s a state of existence, one which his mother is so obviously disgusted by.

He makes an attempt to wash away the sharp taste of rejection off with the slow drag of fingernails down his legs. It’s an attempt made in vain.

Later, when he feels the hot water run out and turn too cold for his skin, he clothes himself in sweats. They are loose and comfortable, clean and scentless. He cannot say the same about the other contents of his bedroom. Castiel retrieves a plastic trashbag from the hall closet. In it, he shoves his sheets, his quilt, all clothes that bare the scent of what he is, and his heat, and ties it up. Maybe, for at least another month, he can pretend that he isn’t a...an omega.

He carries the bag to the laundry room and debates on whether to leave it for the help to do. He decides against it, and turns on the washer himself, filling it with detergent before dumping his clothes inside.

Castiel runs his hands up and down his arms, suddenly feeling cold. His nose twitches, a warning, and he turns on his heel, spotting his brother leaning against the laundry room door.

Instinct demands he lower his eyes, look as small as he feels. Is. But he cannot bring himself to do it. Omegas are supposed to act a certain way, but Castiel isn’t an omega in his heart. He wishes his family felt the same way.

“You feeling better?” Gabriel asks him, a strange note of concern in his voice that makes Castiel’s brows furrow.

“As good as one can feel after a grueling heat,” he replies brazenly, and even Gabriel reddens.

“Yeah. Um, right. Mom’s pretty freaked right now, you know.”

Castiel nods, and doesn’t answer beyond that. How do they think Castiel feels? He’s the one whose body has morphed before his own eyes, he’s the one who was alone when he woke up in a pool of his on fluids, thick and heavy and terrifying.

But you weren’t alone,  a traitorous voice reminds him, and it’s that thought that strikes a nerve. Castiel marches passed Gabriel, bumping his shoulder antagonistically as he went. That annoying little voice protests once more, reminding him that Gabriel is an alpha, maybe not his alpha, but one that deserves respect. Respect that Castiel doesn’t deserve.

But he does deserve it!

He is so very determined to go to his bedroom, and never come out, show his family just how defiant an omega son can be, but is halted at the foot of the stairs. A soft knock comes from the front door.

Politeness, in Castiel’s mind, seems to override defiance. So he tentatively walks to the door, and cracks it open.

The first thing he notices is  heavy air, kneading at Castiel’s nostrils like he has never breathed. It’s a familiar scent, one that quickly becomes recognizable when he lays his eyes upon the source.

His chest swells, undefeated, alive, needy—

“What do you want?” Castiel barks, deflating the emotions more violently than he actually meant to, as he glares at the visitor.

Dean remains frozen, tongue-tied even, as he twists his fingers together. “I came to see if you were feeling better…” he trails off, nervously? Castiel cocks his head, opening the door a little wider. He breathes Dean in, confirms the emotion written across the alphas face by the thick scent coming off him now. Funny, even though Castiel has always had a knack for scent, he’s never been able to detect emotion in pheromones. If he concentrates hard enough, Castiel thinks he even smells something warmer, like a steady campfire, slow roasting marshmallows and firewood.

“I’m no longer in heat, if that’s what you’re so curious about,” Castiel informs him, still watching Dean very carefully.

“That’s not...well, it was. I really just wanted to make sure you are okay, and you obviously are, so I’ll leave,” Dean bites out as he shoves his hands in his pockets, a scowl striking his features. He goes to turn, to leave, and Castiel doesn’t want that for reasons unknown. He takes a step out of his house, and clothes the front door behind him. Presses his back against it, hoping he doesn’t have to ask Dean to stop leaving if he just stares hard enough. Long enough.

It works. Their eyes connect for an immeasurable amount of time, time that Castiel attempts to measure in Dean’s blinks. He doesn’t blink a lot, neither does Dean. They just watch each other, waiting for something. Castiel doesn’t know what.

After the pregnant silence, Castiel brings himself to ask, “Why?”

Dean is stunned by the question. “Because,” he says,as if that suffices to answer.

“...Because…?” Castiel murmurs, noticing that Dean has edged the slightest step closer. There wasn’t a great gap between them in the first place, but Castiel straightens as Dean draws closer. Maybe he’s imagining it, but Dean’s eyes linger on his lips for some time, the heady scent of him becoming fuller, in a way. The warmth is still there, stronger even, but it is lined in something that smells like a storm, just before the rain  and lightning mix in the sky.

“Because,” Dean echoes, but it’s a wayward whisper, not the reply Castiel wants to hear. But Dean goes on, “I didn’t like seeing you like that, at the resort.”

That, too, was not the reply he wanted to hear. Castiel’s face falls, his warmth beginning to fracture as his  shoulders slump. “In heat,” he mutters with a knowing nod. “It was disgusting,  I know—”

“No,” Dean interrupts. “Not the heat.” His voice is sharp, his eyes narrowed as his hand lifts, higher, closer to Castiel’s face. He watches the long fingers draw nearer, and pushes back against the door. Dean mirrors his widened eyes, shaking his head slightly, and then touches the tips of his fingers softly to Cas’s cheek. They both exhale in relief. In something else that doesn’t have a name. That something else urges Castiel to press forward, not because this is an alpha wanting to touch him, but because he is an omega wanting to be touched  by an alpha. No, not even omega. He is Castiel and he wants to be touched by this  man— Dean. He wants Dean, and his brain fumbles to wrap his head around the concept of desiring an alpha, but he has done it before. He did it when he knew it was wrong. And now…

“Dean.” He shudders when the fingertips trail down his jaw, capture it as Dean presses the body of his palm against Castiel’s cheek. The touch is much fuller, more thorough. Still not enough.

“I didn’t like seeing you afraid,” Dean finally admits, voice breaking. “Not of me. Not of yourself.”

That’s the moment Castiel chooses to crumble, not to the ground, but into Dean’s arms, a miserable cry pulling from his lips. And Dean clings to him, protecting him from the dark swirl of thoughts threatening to tear him apart from the seams.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, finding words hard to form as his throat grows thick with shame and loneliness. “I shouldn’t…we shouldn’t.” Maybe he shouldn’t refuse this affection, when it’s Dean’s comfort that has his lips against the alpha’s neck.

Dean rubs a hand up his back, resting his fingers at the base of Castiel’s neck and rubs his fingers there. The tension slowly evaporates, like a rain puddle being summoned by the sun, and Dean exhales—Castiel feels it, the  drop of his chest when the air comes out by Castiel’s ear.

“Probably,” he agrees. “I just want to make sure you're alright. You got a—a big change. Not an easy one. Do you want me to leave?” 

After a beat of silence, of Castiel’s cries becoming more like whispers in the back of his mind, he shakes his head. “Not permanently. I need… I need time.”

Dean releases him, a soft smile gracing his lips. No malice, no fear, no disgust. He only wishes he could mirror such emotions.

“I’ll see you when you get back to school.” Dean affectionately brushes his knuckles over Cas’s chin, his smile curling tighter one side , a new facet of Dean’s emotional range that Castiel can only describe as mischievous. “Bye Cas.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, Castiel holes himself up in his bedroom, if to only to allow himself to recover from the continued exhaustion as a result of his heat. It is still weird of thinking of it, being in heat, being an omega. Being a Novak only complicates things in that matter, since their family has only had alphas and betas, as far as the family tree can trace. 

His mother once said, “We stamped that feral, inferiority from our gene pool long ago.” Castiel, if he couldn’t feel that he was close to being ostracized from his own family, would almost find it ironic that he is the one who proves his mother wrong. She’s sometimes accused him of being the one to spite her. He spites her by defending gender equality, by fighting against her old traditional values, by simply being himself. One night, in a fit, she even told him that his being the only beta of all her children must’ve been out of spite, because Castiel was too much like his father, who spited her most of all.

In retrospect, he doesn’t blame his father for leaving their mother. He only wishes, especially now, that Charles Novak would have taken Castiel with him.

But he cannot truly wish himself away, not now. It sounds immature and fanciful, but Dean Winchester has changed things. He has changed Castiel.

While by himself, wrapped up in new, fresh sheets from the linen closet, Castiel thinks of books and movies and even fairy tales. The ones where the (always female) omega finds herself in want of an alpha to sweep her away. And when a strong (always male) alpha comes along, she bares her neck and calls him her True Mate.

Nothing changes Castiel’s perception of those fairy tales. Despite his antagonistic upbringing, he has always held a certain level of respect for omegas. Even though he was taught the contrary, he always thought that love was independent of alpha/omega dynamic. And he still thinks that is true, but he also knows love is a chemical reaction, a biological one.

So he begins to wonder if the feelings that bubble beneath his skin are the result of his and Dean’s encounter during the heat. He remembers thinking odd things, even before Dean found him that night, thinking of Dean in a way he was well aware that betas shouldn’t think of alphas. What if that warmth was just a product of the chemical reaction, the mating process?

Then it should have worn off. Completely void of all those mating chemicals, Castiel thinks that he shouldn’t be so overwhelmed by the emotions he experiences now. On a biological level, there is no influence, except that his being is endeared by Dean’s concern, the affectionate glow in his green eyes, eyes that looked upon him like a dear friend and now...something else.

He has never felt this ‘something else’ before, so how should he know if it’s valid or not? On instinct, he grabs his phone and types out a text and sends it before he has time to change his mind.

 

_ FROM: Castiel _

_ TO: Meg M. _

_ >Have u ever been in love?? _

 

He regrets sending the message before a reply even comes.

 

_ FROM: Meg M. _

_ TO: Castiel _

_ >Ho. Ly. Shit. He fking kissed u didn’t he?? _

 

_ FROM: Castiel _

_ TO: Meg M. _

_ >????? what r u talking about? _

 

_ FROM: Meg M. _

_ TO: Castiel _

_ >He’s a good kisser right right. Giving you the smooch was my idea ;) _

 

_ FROM: Castiel _

_ TO: Meg M. _

_ >You kissed Dean?? _

 

_ FROM: Meg M. _

_ TO: Castiel _

_ >KNEW IT. u love him, lol. dont worry he wasnt into me, i knew he had eyes for you.  _

 

_ FROM: Castiel _

_ TO: Meg M. _

_ >how? _

 

It’s the most sensible question he can bring himself to ask, given the bright flush spraying across his neck. He senses a hint of jealousy running through his blood, the fleeting thought of the fairness of Meg feeling his lips  first—

 

_ FROM: Meg M. _

_ TO: Castiel _

_ >well Ive missed u at school, dnt get me wrong, but that little alpha has been like a lost puppy _

 

Castiel stares down at the words on his phone, doubtful that Meg is not dramatizing the situation in some shape or form. He barely even spoke to Dean outside of the classes they’ve shared for years, and even more seldom spoke to Dean outside some kind of school function. If anything, they coexisted in separate spheres. Neither of them was better than the other, even if Dean was an alpha and most of his friends were, frankly, knot heads.

Yet, Castiel was never oblivious to him. 

Castiel lays down his phone for a moment, ignoring its vibration as he receives another text message, no doubt a follow-up from Meg. He crawls to the foot of his bed and leans over the side, pulling out a shoebox where he stores his keepsakes from over the years. He rummages through it, fingers playing against various photos and rocks with little faces drawn on them. Castiel smiles at them, his old friends when he was too shy to befriend his classmates. Below the rocks are sheets of paper, cards from years ago. He snatches those up.

When he had mono in the ninth grade, he was out of school for a month recovering. During the time his teachers sent homework and, once, get-well cards from the entire class.

Castiel thumbs through them all when he finds a piece of blue cardstock, folded in half. Castiel already remembers it, when he traces his fingers around the outline of a dark blue smiley face. He breathes in steadily, and opens it.

 

 

> Castiel, I hope you are okay. Being sick sucks, but when you get back maybe we can hang out? 
> 
> -Dean W.

 

Castiel doesn’t remember what became of that offer, only that he never thought ill of Dean, not once.

 


	3. Chapter 3

It snows in Lawrence, for the first time since Dean was very young.

He remembers that winter, though he was only five years old, because it accompanied the last winter he ever spent with his mother. He remembers, once, school being called off and being heartbroken (only because it was Kindergarten and he liked coloring) and seeking comfort in his parents’ bed. He crawled between them, planted his face in the crook of his father’s arm while his mom rubbed comforting little circles into his back. Neither of them had anywhere to be, except with each other. With Dean.

He likes to think that his mother's’ absence doesn’t detract from his overall happiness. Dean loves his father, and Sam is the moon and the stars—his reason to live like he has never lost. Sometimes this tendency to be oblivious to the hole in his life feels like he’s betraying his mom. But it’s really the only way he can fall to sleep, without yearning to breath her thick, protective scent one more time.

This time the snow isn’t nearly heavy enough to call off school, but it’s enough to cause Dean to wait at the door for his brother, just to make sure kid’s got his big coat on. He’s a freshman now, which endlessly blows Dean’s mind, but Dean doesn’t ever think he will stop making sure Sam isn’t doing stupid shit.

When Sam gets to the door, padded jacket, gloves and all, Dean smirks and gives him a hard slap on the shoulder. The coat’s material, of course, absorbs the smack, but Sam still glares from beneath his long, in-need-of-cutting-bangs. “Those couple years of cub scouts did you good, Sammy. Being prepared and all.”

“It’s cold outside,” he replies, lip sticking out and voice waning like the dejected teenager he is.

“Not that cold. Not like the slopes are.”

Sam rolls his eyes and pushes through the door, bumping Dean’s shoulder. “Whatever.”

“Whatever, get your ass in the car,” Dean shoots back, smiling as he feels the snow crunch beneath his shoes, and the wind bite at his ears. He thinks that he may prefer the cold.

 

* * *

 

 

Gabriel assures him, for the umpteenth time that morning, that he smells normal. His older brother grows visibly impatient as Castiel rubs his hands down his thighs, searching for breath that he cannot completely catch. It’s a seizing feeling in what feels like the bottom of his lungs, like there is air trapped in the vesicles and if he could just calm himself, the pockets of air would release and everything would be alright.

Castiel doesn’t expect Gabriel to wrap a hand around his shoulder, so he recoils from the touch. His brother is wounded, but tilts his head forward in acknowledgment. Things are different now, everyone treats Castiel as if he is more delicate, but Gabriel tries to treat him the same. Castiel wants to be treated the same, but he cannot ignore that his family has been staunch in its beliefs—omegas are inferior.

He doesn’t want to be inferior to his family, the ones he loves.

“Whatever you’re thinking, you just need to stop,” Gabriel says, patting his shoulder. Castiel doesn’t flinch.

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“It’s written all over your face, bro. Just—deep breaths, okay. You don’t smell like an omega. You don’t smell like anything but a wholesome little beta, I promise.”

The feelings of inferiority are set aside, in his mind, making room for the most current issue. Castiel may be able to deal with different treatment at home, among his mother and brothers, but he does not think he could handle being singled out in school. He remembers when he first started at Lawrence High School. The first few weeks were miserable, being that everyone knew each other and Castiel was the most obvious outsider. The lowest rung on the ladder. The doormat that no one had a problem walking over. Something changed, Castiel thinks, but he doesn’t remember how or why but he was suddenly embraced. Maybe it’s because he befriended Meg, and she is all kinds of terrifying. He knows he certainly doesn’t want to go back to being an outsider. Being found out as a male omega would only open him up to new forms of harassment—of the sexual nature. 

A chill runs up his spine, as he imagines the worst. Being forced into a bathroom stall, to his knees—

But no one will find out, he tells himself. He used an ample amount of deodorizer and he is on hormone suppressants. No one will know.

 

* * *

 

 

Gabriel’s promise is put to the test as Castiel walks into his first period class. The same testosterone-fueled knot heads from the ski trip are huddled at one table, chatting unintelligently about some sport. Castiel walks by them, slow and steady, and looks over his shoulder as he passes. One of the boys looks up, meets Castiel’s gaze—and Castiel stops breathing.

The boy’s eyes fall, and he falls back into conversation with his friends.

Castiel is trembling when he falls into his desk. His hands shake uncontrollably, heart heavy and pounding his ribs like he has just ran a marathon. They didn’t smell him, they didn’t smell him, they didn’t smell him.

He tries not to think of what would have happened if they did.

Thankfully, the thought is interrupted by Meg sliding into the chair next to him, smirking as she slides into Castiel’s personal space. Usually, he is used to this, but the proximity of her make him clench up. She hardly notices though, and must think that he is playing with her, because her smirk only bursts into a genuine smile. “Clarence, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she comments.

Castiel forces himself to relax, sitting up straighter and rolling his eyes as he crosses his arms. “No, I see something else that’s dead inside.”

“Oh, you really know how to warm a girl’s heart,” she swoons, leaning back in her own seat. “For that, I will be especially nosey. Have you fucked the love of your life yet?”

“No,” Castiel starts, blinking wildly as he looks around the room. Students hover around their friends, waiting for the bell to ring. “No.”

“You mean Dean Winchester hasn’t stripped you of your virginity? Pity, since you love him and all.”

“Meg,” he hisses at her, “Be quiet. We aren’t—we just talked. And I was still highly under the influence of my—medication, when I asked that…” he trails off, surprised by how easily numerous lies flow off his lips in one single breath. He and Dean had something short of a breakthrough, a revelation, one that has left Castiel reeling for days. His continued absence from school only incentivized Castiel to blame the feelings—his infatuation—on residual hormones. He can’t possibly be in love with a boy he barely knows. And he would be deluded to think Dean loves him.

“Mhm.” Meg presses her lips together, obviously unconvinced. “So, you’re gonna talk to him later?”

“No,” he answers. Even Castiel is a little stunned by his answer, given that he’d given no thought to blatantly avoiding Dean until now. Logically, he thinks, it makes sense. His feelings for Dean are constructed on…something he doesn’t understand. Some time apart might provide some clarity.

“What the hell, Cas?” Meg shifts in her seat, and then gives Cas a firm punch in the shoulder. It’s one that’s on the painful side of not-playful.

He winces and clutches the sour flesh beneath his sleeve, shooting a glare Meg’s way. “Violence isn’t going to change my decision,” she tells him narrowly, and then lowers his voice, “Dean and I…it won’t work.”

“It could,” she replies. “People are more accepting than your backwards family, Cas. It’s the fucking twenty-first century. Male alphas and betas can get married for fuck’s sake.”

For the same reason he cannot talk to Dean, he cannot tell Meg the truth. He cannot give into the societal notions of what he is. He would rather pretend to be something he is not and be treated the way he always has, than to be what he is and be treated like a second class citizen. So he stands upright, books in his arms. Evasion is as good as any tactic he’s used to get Meg to leave him alone.

The warning bell sounds in the hallway, as Castiel marches from the classroom bitterly. He makes his way toward the library—his solace and refuge in this place. He lays his books at the table nearest to the window, his table, and remains standing. Snow drifts from the sky, sticking to the window pane, before melting and becoming a water droplet that runs down the pane, leaving a streak in its wake. Castiel stands watching this process a hundred times over before he finally settles in his seat and opens up his book.

The bell rings shockingly soon after he finishes annotating a chapter in his Physics textbook, and he blinks, eyes finding the clock on the far wall. He supposes he doesn’t need to move, given that he is in the library second period anyhow. So his eyes fall back into his book, becoming lost in diagrams and numbers, a language that has always made more sense than people, than relationships.

He looks for his center, his focus, in the jumble of equations and graphs, taking a deep breath through his nose that fills his lungs. It would have been all manner of relaxing, if a leaden scent didn’t hit him as soon as he’s taken it in. Castiel’s fingers curl, one around the pages of his textbook, his other hand pinching into the wooden table he sit at. His heart leaps, acting on its own accord as Castiel slowly lifts his eyes.

Blindfolded, Castiel would have known the scent anywhere. It’s one he has known for years, a tangy smell that once burned in his nose annoyingly, but now it accompanied the uncomfortable emotions that have been bothering him all morning. Dean is not even that close, he’s at the library’s front desk, amiable chatting with one of the librarians. It’s a trait Castiel admires and has never achieved himself—charisma. And maybe that’s what has his stomach in knots, he has simply been charmed. None of that silly, childish bonding propaganda fed to the gullible—

The bitter thought falls flat as soon as Dean’s eyes stretch across the room, meeting Castiel’s. His heart literally skips, a biological feat that makes Castiel’s breath stutter, especially as Dean’s lips spread into a smile.

The moments that he spends watching Dean crossing the room on light feet, Castiel seeks words—harsh, discouraging, anything to make Dean lose interest. Dean is an alpha, he thinks, here to lay claim on him, to charm him, nothing more.

But that is not the case, he comes to realize as Dean sits down on the other side of the table. A safe distance, he notes, and not bold like an alpha, or even for Dean.

“Hey,” he says by way of greeting. Castiel realizes, belatedly, that his eyes have dragged down to Dean’s lips and linger there. He jerks back at the realization, licking his own to moisten the dry skin.

“Hello, Dean.”

There hang a pregnant silence, by in isn’t tense as many silences are. Dean is the first to drop his gaze, though, propping his arms on the table as he leans forward. “You, um, feeling alright today?”

“Never better,” Castiel answers, curt, but any attempt at antagonism is hopeless. Dean is too genuine, too kind. They are qualities Castiel once took for granted but now they are the gleaming stones on the crown of his personality.

“That’s good. Really good.” Dean scratches the back of his neck, leaning away. Come back, Castiel’s thoughts hum at him, prompting him to take another breath. The scent still hang there, nonthreatening and almost comforting in a way. From what he knows of omegas, their ideal mates often have that effect, and Castiel instantly stops breathing. He need not be distracted by pheromones, by scent.  Dean is perceptive though, giving Castiel a once-over before his lips turn downward. “You don’t wanna smell my scent.”

“Only in that it’s distracting,” Castiel murmurs honestly.

Dean stares back, instantly reddening in the cheeks. Castiel finds himself smirking, somehow feeling accomplished for pulling the emotion from Dean. He tentatively sniffs, and thinks, this is what Dean smells like when he’s bashful. It’s sweet and young, and the fondness even makes his neck flush with unexpected warmth.

“You’re straight to the point,” he comments under his breath, shaking his head. “Not fair, though, Cas. I can’t smell you.”

“Good.” Castiel presses his lips. “Dean. You must understand that, that I can’t come out. No one can know, not here.”

Dean’s brows furrow together, and he asks, “What do you mean?”

“It’s January,” he goes on. “We only have five more months until graduation. No one here has to know that I am…”

“But you are. You can’t deny what you are, Cas.”

“I can and I will.” Castiel’s words come out bitter and harsh, but Dean does not flinch. But he does, because he just snapped at an alpha. He lowers his chin, shame writhing against his ribs as he tries to override this instinct, this cowardice.

Dean is close in an instant, gripping Castiel’s hand as he carefully looks around to make sure none are paying them attention. “I don’t know what you’re going through, man, I never will. But I gotta tell you…you’re just great. No matter what you are, beta, omega, squirrel, I’m just. I like you,” the soft and quiet words fumble out of Dean’s lips. Emotions, or at least speaking of them, seems clumsy. Castiel sniffs, denying that heavy weight on his chest any power over him as he lifts his head. Dean’s eyes are right there, vivid and green, strong and grounding.

“This is insane,” Castiel hears himself say. He blinks rapidly, swallowing as he finds hidden meaning behind his own sentiment. There is a but hanging on his lips, tickling his fingertips as he weaves them in the thread of Dean’s. The newness of this bond, that is what makes his heart thrum like hummingbird wings. It’s not something he needs, but is filling a space he didn’t know was empty.

“You don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t wanna,” Dean murmurs, smoothing his finger down the steeple of their joined hands. The touch, the adoration in such simple contact, makes Castiel’s tongue heavy with the weight of emotion. “This is crazy, but I think we both want it.”

It is something he wants—that is far more stunning.

“What is ‘it’?” Castiel asks.

Dean shrugs his shoulders, nonchalant, before his smile breaks. “Whatever you want it to be, as long as I can…” Dean’s thumb kneads into the palm of Castiel’s hand, igniting a wildfire of sensations along the outermost taut muscle of his thumb. Dean trails off, his simple desire conveyed in the electric conjunction of their hands.

Feeling lightheaded, Castiel takes a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Dean watches him, attentive and wildly searching Castiel’s eyes. For what?

Oh. An answer.

“Alright.”

 

* * *

 

 

The end of the school day comes like a long awaited rain in a drought. Castiel soaks in the sounds of students bustling from his last class, Calculus, while he takes his time packing up his books. As he zips up his backpack, his pencil hangs from his lips, which fills his mouth and nose with a wafting scent of industrialized wood and graphite. The bitterness makes him hurry, and the pencil slides from his mouth to the floor. He curses, reaching under the table, but it’s rolled too far to reach still sitting in his chair. He pushes his chair back from the table and drops to his knees, but when he reaches beneath the table, there is Meg crouched beneath it, holding out his pencil to him.

“Truce?” she asks, hope in her small smile.

Castiel grabs the pencil from her hand and presses his lips together, his brows following suit as he glares. “I’m still mad at you.”

“Hey, I’m willing to shut the fuck up every once and a while…not as willing to give up my partner in crime.”

Her apology is probably the most genuine one Castiel has received to date—only second to the the time after she accidentally drugged him at a party (but they don’t talk about that, ever)—and it’s the best one he’s going to get.  Feeling defeated by his own forgiving nature, Castiel exhales a tired sigh and lowers relaxes his glare.

“I was so determined to give you a cold shoulder of Antarctic proportions,” he mutters, mostly to himself as he gathers his things.

Meg laughs, full and light, “I can’t help it that you’re so sweet on me Clarence.”

“No, I can’t help it.” But he smiles despite himself, because this has been the nature of their relationship. It never wanes, they just get extraordinarily pissed at each other frequently. But, this time he was especially justified in his anger. Upon reflection, he doubts that feeling. He overreacted, maybe, but then again Meg has a way of pushing his buttons for her own entertainment. She knows no boundary.

They walk from his classroom, shoulder to shoulder as they usually do. Castiel feels at ease in the part-empty halls. For this reason, he craves staying after school. It’s better than the oppressive and structured atmosphere of classes, and, more importantly, than being at home.

Home was difficult to start with. One would think that with a family of four, their home would always be bustling with activity. It’s all the contrary; the house always feels empty. Naomi, his mother, works incredibly long hours, which leaves Luke, Gabriel, and Michael in their respective rooms most of the time. Never has there been a concept of ‘family time’ or movie nights or those other cliches portrayed in TV and movies. Michael, before he went to college, clung to Luke, and Luke to him; Castiel, naturally, was close with Gabriel. The bond Castiel feels with his family starts and end there.

Come to think of it, his only family vacations have been those tiring visits to Denver. That sad, lamenting thought sticks out with a note of irony, as he and Meg find their way to Coach Henriksen’s office, which is more like a storage room in the gym with a desk plunked in the corner. Most of the other ski club members are there by the time Castiel and Meg arrive, hovering around the gym in different cliques.

He feels Meg’s elbow dig into his side, causing him to jump and hiss, “What?”

She doesn’t answer, but wordlessly tilts her head to the side. Castiel glares and follows the path in which she points, and his eyes fall on a group of jocks—

Dean.

He should have felt that familiar, overwhelmingly intense gaze.

“He’s making goo-goo eyes,” Meg coos into his ear, making his face flush. Dean sees the exchange from a distance, and his features pull up—a laugh, full and bright even though it’s muted in sound. Uninhibited by the sight of it, Castiel decides he must make Dean smile like that more often.

“Sh—shut up,” he mutters needlessly as Meg grins to herself, and points to Henriksen emerging from his office out onto the gym floor.

“Listen up, you whiny brats. Next trip is in three weeks, and I don’t even have half of your permission slips.” Henriksen takes a few second to give each student their own special glare; the one Castiel receives is sharp, pointed as the finger the coach extends toward him. “And you, you better not come again sick. I had hell to pay and a shit load of paperwork thanks to you checking out early.” His eyes release the hold on Cas, and he projects his load, coarse voice. “That goes for all of you, don’t come on my trip sick.”

“If I have to listen to him drone anymore, I’m gonna be sick,” Meg says in his ear, and Castiel shakes his head slightly to himself. He has only met one person more bitter than Meg is Coach Henriksen, who is rumored to have gone through three bad divorces during his tenure at Lawrence High School. Though, it’s hard to tell if the bitterness predates those marriages or if it is the result.

He goes on, hand planted on his hip. “Lakewood Heights is also asking that I set a curfew, because you all were too damn loud the last time. I will personally tuck everyone in if I have to,” he warns. “Alright, you all know the drill. Meet here Saturday morning—three weeks!” With a note of finality, he trudges back into his ‘office’ and slams the door shut behind him. The echoes of chatter explode in the gym, mostly laughter pointedly at Henriksen’s dramatic nature.

“You’re boyfriend’s coming over,” he hears Meg say, but isn’t really paying attention until the weight of her words settle in. Castiel flashes his eyes wide, to where Dean was standing, but he’s no longer watching from a distance. He is indeed, striding over, confident and tall, and Castiel’s coherency begins and ends as he watches the swivel of Dean’s hips and his—bow legs? That’s certainly something he’s never noticed before…

Dean pauses before the two of them, eying Castiel curiously—can he read my mind? Castiel thinks, and prays he can’t—and then grins at Meg. “You’re not going to shove your tongue in my mouth, are you?”

“I never tap the same well twice,” she muses, cocking a challenging brow. Her hand rests on Castiel’s shoulder and she leans into him, but still speaks loudly enough for Dean to hear, “I’ll let you all plan your secret getaway—I have homework.”

Castiel doesn’t bother argue, even though he knows for a fact that Meg never does her homework, because Dean quickly fills the space she filled. They don’t touch, though, and that’s for the best. They are still surrounded by other students and they came to the agreement that too much attention may draw suspicion.

“Hey,” Dean exhales, smile curling tight on his lips. “So, you wanna get away?”

The obnoxious atmosphere of the loud gymnasium should be an effective answer in and of itself, but Castiel leans in secretly, biting his lower lip. “Desperately.”

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel’s breath hitches in his throat as his thoughts shuffle, like a tapered cue striking and scattering billiards across a table. His thoughts are unfocused, but his body is even more boundless, searching for pleasure it barely even knows to call for, but the journey is encouraged by the suckle of Dean’s lips on his neck.

How did they even get here, he wonders numbly, pleasure flickering to the moments before like a shrouded dream of Dean inviting him for an ice cream, and then kissing, and now they are covering each other in the backseat of Dean’s car.

Castiel thinks he may have started it; regardless, he is most definitely an active participant now, as Dean’s lips suck and move down to his shoulder, Castiel’s fingers slide beneath his shirt and massage up the flat plane of his stomach. The skin is soft, hard and flexing beneath his touch as Dean sighs against his skin. If the touch and the kissing wasn’t enough to leave him bruised and breathing heavily in the small space, Castiel is literally intoxicated by the scent of aroused alpha all around him. His mind wanders back to the night in the hotel room, where the tinge of arousal mixed with worry and his own omega scent, and relishes in the fact that this is different. They are both here, invested in the exchanging of sweet words, of touches, and there is no fear.

“Dean,” he hears himself say, arching up as Dean sucks into a sensitive patch on his shoulder. Dean nudges closer, his knee between Castiel’s legs, unwittingly tucked against his embarrassingly hard groin. He sucks, and then breaks away, leaning back to admire the soft, red mark he’s left on Castiel’s skin. Satisfied, he meets Castiel’s eyes, soft and adoring.

He kisses Castiel’s lips like it’s the first time, the last time, and Castiel finds the symmetry in the delicacy intoxicating.

“You’re so damn beautiful, Cas,” he breathes against him. “I just wish I could smell you…” Castiel doesn’t respond to that, suddenly conflicted, and Dean notices the change immediately. “But it’s your—your body.” He runs a hand down Castiel’s shoulder, his arm, and finds his hand. Their fingers link, and he presses them to his chest. Against the pounding, rhythmic beat of his heart. “Yours.”

From there, the heated kissing subsides, and Dean leans against the door and pulls Castiel into the bracket of his arms, pressing Cas up against his chest. Castiel is glad that it didn’t go farther than the kissing, the vague touching. He barely understands his body, and especially not the way his body works in its…fully developed state. 

Fear snags at him suddenly. He bore his neck for an alpha, and let that same alpha mark him up. What kind of connotation does that even have?

“You’re really amazing,” Dean muses in the silence, disrupting Castiel’s tumultuous train of thought. The alpha smooths a hand down his hip, and sighs happily. “I didn’t expect that, honest. I really just wanted to get you an ice cream cone.”

“I think,” Castiel says, pausing a moment to smile to himself, “that cookie dough just does things to me.”

The comment does get the reaction Castiel desired, and Dean’s stomach shakes with laughter against his back. “Hell, no one ever told me that could be an aphrodisiac. I’ll keep that in mind…” he trails off, still thoughtful, soft.

For the moment, the fears surrounding the alpha/omega dynamic dissolve. There is something to be said about the alpha who holds him close. And, the scent coming off him in slow, full waves wraps around Castiel’s body just like a pair of limbs would. It’s all he needs to decide that this is good, whatever it is, whatever it may become, it is something good.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In his experience, all relationships start off sunny and bright; but, a dark cloud hangs in the distance: taunting him, shrouding the sun even before the light goes out.

Dean, for once, feels none of that. If there were a landscape painted to depict his feelings for Cas, there would be a bright sky with no clouds in sight, no sign of day turning to night. Every morning following their gentle progression from close to something else, Dean wakes feeling well rested, hands fisted into his sheets a pillow bracketed in his sleep-numb arms. The pang of loneliness is short-lived, only existing because he wishes he were waking up next to someone. Specifically Cas.

Two weeks after their first, heated kiss in the backseat, Dean wakes up in that same fashion. The weekend is nigh, meaning he can sink into to the warmth of morning, a breath of sunlight against his face. He rolls his hips leisurely into the pillow wedged between his legs, his groin comfortably hard. That dissipates, the hardness at least, as he stretches his back and there is a strum of popping sounds from his vertebrae.

The slam of a door downstairs disrupts Dean’s slow ascent from unconsciousness. He rouses, swallowing around a weight in his throat that always comes with a quickened heart, a dry mouth. Dean climbs out of bed, slipping into his tennis shoes before darting into the dark hall. It’s empty, and everything’s quiet.

“Sam?” Dean calls, his voice a blaring hum above the silence. He treads lightly to his brother’s door and turns the knob, peaks through a crack long enough to gauge that his brother still lay quietly in his bed. Dean shuts the door. At the end of the hall is the staircase, at the top of which Dean hesitates.

“Dad?” He calls out for his father, though he thought that John Winchester was working a job this weekend. Dean flips on the light to illuminate the staircase, and is surprised to see his father at the bottom, a bleak blob of jeans and leather. Dean’s heart drops as his mind is sent back to over a decade ago, the harrowing months following his mother’s death. His dad all but surrendered to alcoholism and, more often than not, Dean was responsible for tucking John into bed.

But that was all supposed to be behind them, and Dean’s skin burns like finding his father in such a state is a direct betrayal. A few AA meetings and copious family counseling, John tells him constantly he regrets laying such a heavy burden on his son. Dean doesn’t regret that—taking care of his father—but he does regret that Sam’s upbringing suffered for John’s negligence.

Instead of being angry, Dean is just disappointed.

With that pang of acceptance of the situation, Dean’s shoulders slump and he walks to the bottom of the stairs. Dean is stronger now, and doesn’t struggle much when he reaches around his dad’s waist to haul him up—

But the gesture is ruined when his dad shoves him back, sending Dean tumbling down a couple of stairs and into the foyer.

“What the hell?” he shouts at his dad, hoping the newly livid tone will spark some sort of congenially in John’s state.

Dean’s about to lash out, to let his dad feel the weight of his worry, his resentment (be it true or not, anything to just make the drunkard understand)—he doesn’t. He can’t, not when he sees his father from this new and terrifying vantage point.

He’s mostly shrouded under the collar of his leather jacket, but Dean can see the blood like neon lights against midnight. His stomach curls, threatening to empty itself when he finally takes a moment to breathe in his father—something he rarely lets himself do—and doesn’t just smell the familiar omega smell he’s come to associate with family. He smells fear and it is disgusting, makes Dean’s insides cramp and his adrenaline pump. It’s a smell alphas associate with danger, and Dean is nothing if not protective of his family.

“Dad?” he bites out, edging closer, but treading lightly. He sees now that his father’s shoulders heave with breath he cannot catch.

“Son,” his dad whispers back, lifting his head. The blood is coming from his nose, drizzling on his lips as he works his jaw.

Dean shakes his head and reaches for John’s shoulder, grounds him in this moment of terror. He appraises his dad, sees that his clothes are more rumpled than they would be just coming home from a regular job. And his jeans are bloody too, his fly ripped open to the seam. Dean feels bile rise in his throat, but swallows it down. “What happened? Who did this?” The words come out in a growl.

His father answers his rough tone with a glare; right, he’s not supposed to get all ‘alpha male’ with his dad. But this—this is serious. Dean starts to assess the mixture of scents more and he is certain he smells sweat and blood that do not belong to his dad.

“I’ll call the police,” Dean says, quieter. “Whatever happened, they can help, they can get whoever did this—“

“No,” John snaps, and then shrugs Dean’s hand off his shoulder. He grips the railing, and heaves himself up a few more steps before falling down onto his knees again. “No cops. They won’t do a damn thing anyway.”

“But—“

“I said no, Dean.” His voice remains firm, but wavers as it wraps itself around Dean’s name. His father’s eyes fall away, and close.

“At least let me help you—“ But his dad pulls away before Dean can even attempt to reach out again. There is a vein of stubbornness that runs through Dean, and he finally knows from where the trait comes. The realization hits him harder than it should; he has gone to great lengths to separate himself from his father’s dysfunction and, in the process, has neglected the fact that he’s the man’s son. His flesh, his blood.

Which, he figures, is why there is a distinct flare of anger burning in the pit of his stomach. Here, before him, is evidence of the years of harassment and assaults he always suspected his father endured. Dean’s fists tighten and nostrils flare, and then John’s eyes flash open.

He glares at Dean, the gaze like jagged glass. It’s oddly silencing, presses a small whine from Dean’s lips, and the alpha looks away.

“This doesn’t make me weak,” John says needlessly, pushing himself up off the stairs. He limps, but he grips tightly at the railing and successfully trudges up the stairs. Dean wonders what his dad means by ‘this’, until he sees his father walking up the stairs. There are fresh, red stains on the back of his pants. Dean lurches, his stomach threatening to empty itself once more.

“This makes me strong.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Seeing Castiel that Saturday evening is a blessing.

Dean had actually contemplated canceling their movie date earlier in the day, while his mind was berated with worry for his father, and he weighed the benefits and consequences of keeping his dad’s secret. He doesn’t even tell Sammy, though it’s not a secret Dean would want to burden his younger brother with.

And he certainly doesn’t want to burden Cas with his struggles. But, somewhere around the time John leaves for his shift at the diner (to which Dean tried to object, but his father’s fierce glare has a way of silencing all of Dean’s protests) Dean settles on his decision. And he decides that, as unhealthy and clingy as it seems, he needs Cas. The guy has become an unexpected pillar of comfort in Dean’s life. Even though their more intimate touches are left for moments of privacy, Dean looks to Cas for guidance, for support. 

He’s also a hell of a Calculus whizz, and Dean needs more help in that subject than he’d like to admit to anyone else.

The soft knock at the front door sends Dean racing to the foyer. Only when he’s at the door does he pause. He catches his reflection on a mirror beside it, and smoothes his unruly hair—he’s never been this vain—and takes a deep breath. Then he opens the door.

A blessing, Dean’s mind numbly gathers, eyes hanging on Cas like a prophet’s would hang upon an angel’s halo, its wings.

Cas’s smile alone is enough to send Dean’s heart into a frenzy; it makes him return the grin, though his is goofy and lopsided smile vaguely disguisesthe longing Dean feels build in his throat.

“Hi,” Castiel says shyly. Dean can’t discount that blush, filling his cheeks all red and puffy.

“Cas,” he replies, opening the door wider. Dean gestures for him to come inside, and as soon as he is, Dean shuts the door and breaks the artificial distance between them with a soft kiss against Cas’s cheek. He lingers, nose nudging against the plush, blush filled skin, and imagines that there is a scent there. But, alas, all he smells is plain beta—only plain in that Dean knows it’s artificial, and nothing compared to Cas’s true scent. He still smells good, but not the same as what Dean smelled in their hotel room weeks ago.

It’s something he longs to smell again, but he doesn’t dare voice the desire aloud.

“Would it be crazy to say I’ve missed you terribly?” Castiel murmurs as he begins to thread his fingers into Dean’s hair, pressing deeper into their subtle embrace.

In answer, Dean mouths his lips downward, which causes a breath to hitch in Cas’s throat. Soon their lips are touching—soft and chaste, yet deep in complete in ways Dean cannot begin to explain. His mood is enriched by the kiss, and, with a sigh, he tugs back so that he may see Castiel’s face completely. “Not crazy. I know the feeling.”

Every time Dean reciprocates Cas’s tiny confessions, his face lights up like he is amazed Dean could possibly feel the same way. His expressions shines like that now, and he grabs onto Dean’s fingers. “I’m glad,” he murmurs. “I have been very excited about tonight. What are we watching?”

Dean grins widely. “Well, I was hoping you would pick?”

Cas snorts, following Dean as he leads them by the hand to the living room. “I should feel honored, to be handed such a power.”

“With great power comes great responsibility,” Dean tuts seriously, barely masking a snort.

“Alright Uncle Ben.” Cas gazes upon the array of DVDs in Dean’s entertainment center. Dean watches his brows knit, and smiles as Cas reaches forward and picks up—

“Raiders of the Lost Ark? I didn’t know you liked Indiana Jones,” Dean muses aloud.

“I’ve always thought Harrison Ford was…” Castiel shrugs instead of completing his sentence, blushing yet again.

“Hot?” Dean swallows as he gauges Cas’s reaction. By the looks of his refusal to meet Dean’s eyes, the answer to Dean’s question is most definitely yes. “You’ve always been into alphas, huh? Even before…”

“I would have never admitted it,” Castiel murmurs. “Never, not with my family.” His face falls, and he subconsciously starts to wring his hands nervously. That is definitely a sign that something’s up. Dean takes the DVD from his hands and lays it aside, instead choosing to pull Cas to the couch.

“What happened?”

Castiel meets his gaze evenly, lips pressed. “My mother has came upon a decision to out me to the school’s administration.”

“What?” Dean blurts, blinking rapidly. Cas’s hands curl tightly around his fingers, but it doesn’t subdue the slow swell of anger in his chest. “What the hell? Why would she do that?”

“She said,” Cas replies slowly, taking a breath. “That it is socially irrepressible to conceal my affliction, from the community that is.”

Upon the word affliction, they both flinch.

“She’s wrong to do that, Cas,” he says, voice growing. “She is so fucking wrong. You aren’t afflicted, you aren’t—there is nothing wrong with you. Nothing. This world is so fucked up, and your mother is backwards.”

Castiel nods curtly. “But, she is my mother.”

“I don’t give a shit, I don’t—“ A growl comes from his lips unintentionally, and he wills himself to back away from Cas. He doesn’t want to scare him, not when this unbidden instinct is flaring up in him. “Being an omega shouldn’t be a fucking death sentence,” Dean bites out.

So slow, but not tentative, Castiel slides into his space. His hands fumble, finding a solid space to cling on Dean’s shoulders, presses close until Dean feels breath washing against his cheek. “Dean, it’s not a death sentence.” Dean catches onto the faintness of his voice, and looks up.

“I know.” He exhales, and falls forward until his cheek is pressed against his lap. His voice is muffled as he continues, “When you said you wanted to keep it a secret, I didn’t want to. But now that it’s going to be out in the open, I don’t want anyone to know.”

Castiel still leans against him, an arm curled loosely around his waist as his fingers knead into Dean’s hip. He thinks he feels Cas’s breath coming through the fabric on his shoulder, and a chill shakes through his bones as he thinks of his mouth pressed there in an open-mouthed kiss. He chooses that moment to sit up, to stand up, if only to shake the tension out of his tightly bound muscles.

“Dean, I’m sorry.”

The apology brings Dean’s thoughts to a halt. 

“I’m sorry I’m an omega. That I’m weak, that I’m…I’ll just never be good enough, not for my mother, and certainly not for you.”

“Shuddup,” Dean blurts as he jerks back at the words. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know what you’re saying, though.”

Dean shakes his head slow. “No, you really don’t.”

“Then explain,” Cas mutters. “Explain why you seem so ashamed.”

“I’m not!” Dean exclaims, loud enough to make Cas flinch back. He scrambles to collect himself, and then slides back onto the couch, and then finds Cas’s hands like they’re his anchors. “I’m not ashamed of what you are.”

Castiel’s glare has become a simple gaze. And it’s funny—not in a ha-ha, kind of way, but in an ironic way—that this is the gaze that Dean’s filed away for years, that he came to associate with the kind, smart beta kid in his grade—Cas. He found it striking, too probing for Dean’s taste. He’s always been so…afraid of people looking to closely. He doesn’t want people to see the corners of Dean’s mind that he carefully hides away. The stare that Cas gives—and gives him now—threatens the stature of all the walls he’s built.

“I can see the shame, in you, like a tattoo,” Castiel says, and all of Dean’s fear comes to life, igniting, burning, leaving him raw. The placidity between them is oddly grounding, in what Dean thinks may be the most profound moment of this relationship. There is no intimacy, not in the romantic sense, when Castiel touches his face and dissolves Dean’s walls like they are made of nothing but air that thinks it’s mortar. “What are you ashamed of?”

Dean winces, pained, a crushing and numbing weight being pushed from his chest. “Me,” he breathes.

A beat passes, and then another. Dean is left listening to the sound of Cas’s breath, almost in sync with his thrumming heartbeat.

The near-silence is shaken by Castiel’s voice, “Why?”

“Because, because I…” Dean struggles to articulate his thought, and is almost too afraid to continue. He starts again, swallowing hard. “When you were in heat—“ Dean starts, and Cas automatically tightens beside him. “All I wanted to do was protect you. And it wasn’t all selfless, but the instinct. Alpha protects omega, and you were so afraid.”

“I remember.” Castiel’s voice sounds so cold, and Dean feels sick for even bringing up what must be a horrible memory.

He finds the strength to look up, though. “Sorry, I…just. You need to understand.” And then he swallows his nerves—there is no shortage of them, now—and continues. “I hated myself then, for that feeling. Even more for my reaction to your scent, because you smelled so good. I couldn’t help it and I was disgusted with myself. I thought, I am better than that—I was raised better, my dad taught me better than to think like that. But I’m just no different than any other testosterone-crazed knot head.”

“Hey,” Castiel starts, voice still hard, but his hands are a vice around Dean’s wrists. “You are different. That you recognize all that, it makes you very different.”

Dean shakes his head, “…And then this morning, my dad comes home, he—he’s got blood on him, soaked into his clothes. It’s his, but I—“ He closes his eyes, but the image from that morning only plays behind his eyes in perfect recall. It makes him twist, makes him suck on the roof of his mouth so hard the skin might peel off. “I didn’t ask, and he’d never tell, but I know alphas did that to him.”

“Wait…” Cas is all weary sounding, hands loosening on Dean’s. “Your father’s an…”

Dean looks up. “You didn’t know?” Dean’s head spins, because it’s not exactly the norm for an alpha to be the son of a male omega. Kids were cruel to Dean, to Sam too, for their origins. Though, Castiel hasn’t exactly had the displeasure of meeting his dad, but still…

Castiel’s only reply is a shake of his head. 

“Everyone knew, I thought. I got pushed around over it a lot in grade school but… you started school later, so maybe you didn’t have any reason to know.”

“I didn’t,” he says, furrowed brows parting as Cas’s entire expression simply falls. He squeezes Dean’s hand, if only to ground himself, and then meets his gaze. “But, I understand what you’re saying. I know firsthand that alphas think themselves superior. How can you be superior to someone you love?”

Dean can see the gears turning in Castiel’s head, the subtle downturn of his lips. He thinks that Dean thinks he’s better than omegas, because that’s an inherent alpha…thing. But that’s not how Dean feels at all. What he feels is an intense protectiveness, an instinct to preserve omegas because they are just as important as any alpha, any beta. But the stigma against them is so much more violent in nature. But, being the son of John Winchester taught him one thing: omega doesn’t equal weakness.

This doesn’t make me weak. This makes me strong.

His father’s words slice into him, while Castiel’s gaze continues to probe his thoughts.

“I’m not superior,” Dean murmurs in a breath. “But you learn a certain level of respect, being raised almost completely by an omega. But, I’m the way I am because of who my dad is, not what he is. And—“ He tentatively touches his fingers to Cas’s neck, against the artery—it’s the only place he can ever detect the slightest scent of anything but that stupid deodorant. “You are amazing, alpha, beta, omega…don’t matter. Will never matter.”

“Even I can’t believe that.” Cas’s reply comes breathy, miserable, almost broken. “My mother hates me. My mother.”

Dean shakes his head hard, and kisses Cas slow and chaste.

Upon breaking apart, feeling full of sorrow for the boy he cradles in his hands, Dean says, “She’s wrong.”

He says it like he cannot be wrong and, he hopes, Castiel listens.


	4. Chapter 4

Dinner is silent in the Novak house. Castiel’s thoughts run tangent to the sounds of clattering silverware, of Gabriel’s loud chewing, and the click of his mother’s high heel against the hardwood floor.

It’s actually not abnormal, the tangible silence surrounding the dinner table like a bubble about to burst. Small talk is reserved when all the chairs are filled; Michael is attending college and Luke is nowhere to be seen nowadays. Though not close with his brothers, Castiel does admit there is strength in numbers. With his only company being Gabriel, all of mother’s judgement and hostility is obviously pointed at him.

A month ago, Castiel would have never confronted her about this stare. He probably would have argued that any hostility from his mother is well warranted. Despite her emotional distance, she always seemed to be fair. But now, Castiel sees that the fairness only goes as far as her deep-rooted belief in an omega’s worth.

“Looking at me like I’m trash won’t magically send me to the garbage can,” he mutters between bites.

The offhanded phrase instantly causes Gabriel to choke and cough loudly, while his mother pauses her chewing to tilt her head. “Why, Castiel, what a mouth you have developed,” she tuts, lifting her brows as she calmly takes a long sip of her wine. “Should we visit Dr. Harrison? I would hate for your hormones to be imbalanced and perpetuating your foul mood.”

Castiel feels a hot burn in his blood, anger overwhelming him faster than he can contain himself. “I’m not the product of my hormones, mother,” he snaps. “I have legitimate feelings. And you have been treating me like a lost cause for weeks.”

His mother’s eyes go soft, suddenly empathetic, and she sets down her glass. “Castiel,” her voice wraps around his name so patronizingly that Castiel can feel himself getting sicker by the second. “I know omega’s cannot truly control their emotions, even while on suppressants. It’s all apart of the curse.”

“It isn’t a curse!”

“It is most certainly one you want to keep hidden, though,” she retorts, and it is one retort that causes Castiel to fall silent. By the sudden quietness, she seems pleased with herself and smiles. “But we know you can’t hide what you are for long. It’s unfair to your classmates; and their parents deserve to know the likes of whom their children go to class with.”

“Ma,” Gabriel tries, but their mother simply smothers any attempt to reason with a fierce glare.

She turns back to Castiel, warm and motherly. The latter conveys that the warmth is artificial, a tool that she’s always used to control her sons. “Do you understand, Castiel? It’s irresponsible enough that I have kept your secret this long.”

“It won’t change anything for them,” he mutters quietly. “But it will change everything for me.”

“You will still be my son, and I will continue to help you deal with your condition,” she promises.

The most upsetting aspect of his mother’s twisted thoughts is that she actually thinks she is bettering the world by upholding her backwards beliefs. Castiel had know idea just how deep her dislike for omegas ran until he became the object of her hostility, of her false hospitably. 

He cradles his hands in his laps, like he can object to his nature being a condition. That word, it actually implies there is a cure.

Castiel finds himself wishing there was one.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, Castiel curls up beneath his bedcovers with a book in hand, his cell phone in the other. He is well aware that he has several texts from Dean, though he hasn’t had the energy or, perhaps, courage to answer them. The chasm between them isn’t irreparable, he thinks, but there is still fear surrounding the knowledge that everyone will know what he is within days. Tomorrow, even, if his mother is prompt in her threats.

After the conversation they had the night before (during what was supposed to be a regular movie date) Castiel is reeling. He had been tiptoeing around their relationship with a subliminal expectation that, eventually, Dean would treat him like property. His logic was deeply rooted in the assumption that alphas, upon scenting an unmated omega in heat, would be drawn to them with an unequivocal attraction. An unswayable desire. Castiel thought himself a fool for allowing the relationship to flourish into more. Part of him was just waiting for all of the words whispered into his ear growing up to be whispered against his own, out of Dean’s mouth. Never mind the gentility of his touch, the sincerity of his sweet words. Omegas are only good for one thing, and one thing only—being good bitches for their alphas.

Even rethinking those foul thoughts makes Castiel curl up tighter, make him want to throw his phone out the window and never look at it again. He assumed the absolute worst of Dean, only to learn that the alpha is the son of an omega father.

He lurches, feeling ashamed that he ever doubted Dean. Castiel deserves this self-inflicted pain of separation, because he certainly doesn’t deserve Dean.

But maybe he does owe Dean an explanation of his behavior. An apology. Honestly, he just wants to breathe the smell of the alpha—that grounded him while they were together, and it would pull him from this pit of loneliness he’s found himself in now.

Castiel decides to lay his book on the nightstand, and then gives his phone a hopeful squeeze. It’s now or never.

Like he thought, his inbox holds several text messages from Dean, but the most recent ones happen to be from Meg.

 

_ TO: Castiel _

_ From: Meg M. _

_ >Cas are you eating? _

_ >Caaaaas I need to talk to you _

_ >CLARENCE _

_ >Cas, you cant be sleeping yet… i need to talk to you _

 

Castiel’s heart drops as the phone vibrates in his hand, a new message popping up on his screen.

 

_ >Cas…why didnt you tell me you tell me what you are? _

 

His hands shake as he worries his lower lip; he hasn’t a good answer, and he certainly is not ready to have this conversation. Yet, now that he has seen what he can only describe as a solemn, straight forward question, he cannot ignore it. 

 

_ TO: Meg M. _

_ FROM: Castiel _

_ >How did you know? _

 

_ TO: Castiel _

_ FROM: Meg M. _

_ >I heard my parents talking about it. you know our moms are on the PTA, and your mom just dropped a bomb at the last meeting _

 

Castiel sucks in a sharp breath, shaking his head as tears threaten to fill his eyes. He squints hard, ignoring the blur, as another message from Meg comes through.

 

_ >if you wanted people to know, you would've told me first right _

 

“Of course,” Castiel says aloud; he can almost hear the masked hurt in the typed words, so he pounds out as much as he can in one message to clarify the events of the last weeks.

 

_ TO: Meg M. _

_ FROM: Me _

_ >I found out a few weeks ago, beside my family, Dean’s the only one who knows. i found out on the ski trip. i wanted to tell you Meg, but i couldn't tell anyone, but my mom has her beliefs _

 

_ TO: Castiel _

_ FROM: Meg M. _

_ >wow… _

_ >what a bitch, Cas, im sorry. if she wasn’t twice my age and wouldn't have me tossed in jail id kick her ass _

 

Castiel chuckles to himself, closing his eyes for a moment.

 

_ TO: Meg M. _

_ FROM: Castiel _

_ >lol, thank you. I think _

_ >definitely thank you for the solidarity. Meet me before school tomorrow in the library, I’ll tell u everything before everybody knows _

 

_ TO: Castiel _

_ FROM: Meg M. _

_ >yeah, I will. your secret wont be kept for long _

 

_ TO: Meg M. _

_ FROM: Castiel _

_ >I know _

 

From there, their conversation dies out and Castiel shakily exhales a breath, counting his blessing that he at least has one person in his corner. He is about to stow away his phone when he remembers the initial intent for checking his messages. He opens up his messages from Dean, smiling as he reads them, hearing Dean’s voice in his mind with every word.

 

_ TO: Castiel _

_ FROM: Dean W. _

_ >U busy? _

_ >Believe it or not I just had salad a la Sam for dinner…disgusting _

_ >I miss you, hope ur alright _

 

The tears that had threatened to pour down his cheeks before down flowed freely, all while a smile stretched so wide on his lips Castiel feared his face would get stuck that way.

 

_ TO: Dean W. _

_ FROM: Castiel _

_ >I miss you too Dean, sorry ive been quiet all day. ill tell you about it tomorrow. meet me in the library at 8? _

 

Almost immediately, a reply comes.

 

_ TO: Dean W. _

_ FROM: Castiel _

_ >okay, I will. goodnight angel xx _

 

“Goodnight, Dean,” he whispers to himself, typing out the same reply. He falls asleep reading the words on his screen, over and over again.

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Meg does when she sees him, to Castiel’s dismay, is bring him into a tight hug. It’s one that laces under his arms and around his torso, squeezing him down to her height. He nearly topples over with the weight of her, but he regains his balance when she releases him suddenly. Freedom is immediately followed by a firm smack against the back of his head.

“What was that for?” he hisses, rubbing his head, which only makes the sting of her abuse more painful.

She wrinkles her nose, a supplement to her usual glare. “The hug or the smack?”

“Both!”

“Well,” she starts, smile cracking on her lips. “The hug is because your an idiot. And the smack was for being a lying idiot.”

Castiel’s shoulders fall. He deserves the punishment, but there is some kind of foreign empathy in Meg’s eyes that makes the retort fall silent on his lips. “Thank you for meeting me,” says, peering around the library. It is almost eight, which means that the library is fairly empty. They are in the back near the windows, where the sound of their voices will be, for the most part, drowned out by the sound of the heat whirring through vent above them. “I suspect you my mother spared no details in her announcement?”

Meg shakes her head. “Nope, the cold hearted bitch one-handedly outed you. But honestly, Cas, I think people are going to talk about how you hid it so long. Being an omega isn’t that big of a deal, unless  you’ve lived your whole life as a beta.”

“It’s a big deal when you’re a male—“ his words fall off, unable to say the word, even if no one is in earshot. “Males of my persuasion are harassed exponentially more, you know this.”

“I’m not saying that people are gonna call you an omega bitch, alright?” Meg says lowly, brutal as she presses forward. “But you have a good reputation, and not to mention a bad ass alpha who has a vested interest in you. He could solve most of your problems easily, if you know what I mean.”

Castiel squints, brows knitting together. “Dean? What could he possibly do for me?”

“My ears are burning,” comes a voice from behind him, deep and startling. Castiel jumps, hairs on his neck standing up as he whips around, hands up to defend himself. He steps on Meg’s foot, earning a shit from her. Castiel’s heart rattles in his ribcage, only slightly calming when he sees Dean with his hands up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Castiel lies. He doesn’t realize he’s still holding up his hands until Dean touches one uplifted palm, kneading it until he finds the calm within himself to lower his arms.

Meg chuckles. “That’s just his excited face, I thought you’d know Dean-o?” she chuckles, elbowing Castiel in the stomach softly. “Well, I guess this is my cue to get out of Nerd-gatory, I’ll see you in class, Cas. Remember what I said.”

What did she say? Beyond the rush of adrenaline and the thumping of his pulse in his ears, Castiel remembers little of their conversation. Except… she said Dean could help him. Castiel doesn’t know what to make of the recommendation, so he stores away the thought to address the alpha in front of him, watching him with an indiscernible gaze.

“People are talking,” Dean begins, filling the silence. He steps closer to Castiel, taking him by the wrist and tugging him down an aisle of books. They watch each other, seconds ticking by as slowly as hours as Dean searches him. Castiel is usually the one trying to unravel the mysteries hidden in Dean’s eyes, but his thoughts are numbed by the feeling of isolation. The fear that instead of bright, his immediate future will be miserable. Dreams of college and becoming a teacher unravel the longer he lets himself breathe.

And when he does breathe, he focuses on the smell radiating from Dean. It’s a thick musk, pleasantly salty. If he parts his lips, and he does, he can feel the weight of it tickling his tongue. It reminds him of the intense feelings he has for the alpha, and it also leaves him doubting whether his feelings are attuned to the man or the scent.

Experimentally, he holds his breath, closes his lips. With no musk tickling his nose, he touches his heart. The adrenaline-fueled fear has dissipated, but his heart stutters a little more than it should. As Castiel feels his lungs protest the lack of air, Dean stares at him curiously. Concerned. Oh, that care in his eyes make Castiel feel faint (if it isn’t the oxygen deprivation) and he can’t help himself. He breathes, breathes Dean like he will never breathe again, and then leans up on his toes to press a kiss to Dean’s lips.

Dean must taste the desperation, as Castiel kisses him much like their first kiss. Heated, all-consuming, and weightless. He licks into Dean’s mouth, and sighs into him deeply—he is surprised when Dean stiffens, and then presses Castiel back against the book shelf. If Castiel didn’t trust Dean he would not have liked being caught in the bracket of Dean’s arms with no route of escape. But he does, he like it when Dean traps him like this, because it doesn’t feel like Dean is imprisoning him. It is the embodiment of protection, of compassion.

But this has to stop, he thinks numbly; one more second of this security, this heated paradise, and he will never want to stop.

The moment they stop for breath, he pushes out a disappointed, “Stop.”

Dean’s breath hitches, and he steps back completely. No inch of him is hung over Castiel now, and the safeness drains from his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, and Castiel shakes his head as he continues, “That was out of line. I’m sorry.”

Dean bows his chin, true sorrow pulling at his brows. Castiel frowns and touches Dean’s shoulder—it’s a touch that is safe, that won’t tempt him to fall back into Dean’s arms where he will never want to leave.

“That was the best kiss we’ve ever had,” he tells Dean, showing him a rare full, bright smile. Dean’s eyes flick on, like a sprinkle of Christmas lights. “And I want to do it again, just not at school.”

“Oh,” he replies. “Alright then.” Dean seems utterly beside himself, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I meant to say, before we…yeah. I meant to say that if anyone gives you shit, they will have to deal with me. If anyone touches you, I swear, I will rip their goddamned heads off.”

The touch of possessiveness sends an unexpected burn of heat down Castiel’s spine and into his belly. He swallows hard, finding nothing but sincerity in the green eyes looking back at him. “I am capable of protecting myself.”

“I—I know that.” Dean rubs a hand across his face with a sigh. “But, I just want you to know you aren’t alone. Ever since my mom died, my dad’s been alone in that shit. As long as you’ll have me around, Cas, you’ll never be alone.” His gaze burns and he lays a hand over top the one Castiel touches his shoulder with. “I promise.”

And that promise sends another flare of heat deep into his chest, one that is almost impossible to ignore and seal with a kiss to Dean’s lips.

“Thank you,” is all he can manage to say with the warmth spread heavy on his tongue.

 

* * *

 

Castiel’s father was named Charles, but preferred to be called Chuck. His mother didn’t ever consider anyone’s preferences except her own, so Castiel rarely heard the abbreviation tossed around in their home.

Charles Novak had a stern expression that never reached his eyes. By day he was an accountant, by night a weary writer who spent more time drinking than writing. As a boy, Castiel remembers very clearly peaking through the crack of a door leading to the study; he saw his father pitched over his desk, papers strewn everywhere as silent sobs wracked his shoulders up and down. Castiel knew he wasn’t supposed to be awake, let alone spying on his father, but his desire to know his father exceeded any fear of punishment.

By chance, or unfortunate fate, his father peered up as if he knew Castiel stood at the door. He invited Castiel in with the call of his name, instructed him to sit at the chair opposite of his desk. Castiel carefully obeyed, ignoring the chaos that had become of the office. The blur of typed words smeared by, most likely, spilled whisky.

I have failed you, his father told him, words slurred. He looked so grief stricken. In hindsight, Castiel thinks that the sadness in his father’s eyes had to do with Luke’s constant rebellion. But, at that time, he heard those words and took them literally. You was Castiel. It’s the first time his father spoke to him, at least so frankly. I have let this all come to nothing, made a mess, he went on miserably, but found Castiel’s eyes with a firm gaze. But you can clean your hands of it someday, son, as I must clean my hands of it.

It was the last time he spoke to his father since.

An aversion to reminiscing is a trait instilled in him, Castiel thinks, by his mother. But in the days following everyone finding out he is an omega, that last conversation is all he can think about. He must have been six, maybe seven, and the words still come to him clearly after a decade of repression.

For the first time, he actually admits he misses his father. The sting of abandonment is as fresh as it was then, but his understanding of his father’s motivation to walk away and never turn back are clearer than ever.

You can clean your hands of it. Did that mean Castiel had to leave to escape? And what would he be escaping? If he left his family, he would only be trading in his oppressive family for other close-minded people who had no familial connection to him. He would be walking away from a place that was, and will always be, his most precious home. The thought of following in the dust-covered footsteps of his father makes him sick. All that he loves is in Lawrence, and it is what he loves that makes the pain and ridicule worth staying.

The existential crisis at hand leaves Castiel’s chest tight and his mind unable to concentrate on his homework. He closes his textbook and tucks his notebook beneath the cover, pushing it aside over his desk. He’s left staring at the empty wall in front of him, stained by the yellow light of his desk lamp. A heavy sigh lay waiting on his lips, but comes out as a bodily numbing yawn.

He, at least, survived the week. His skin itches as he recalls the staring, his fellow students giving him the cold shoulder, whispers as he walks by. Loneliness crawls up into him, snags at the taut strings in his chest and plucks the anxiety like a long-silent instrument. He pushes it down, it all down, and turns off his lamp. The morning, and his long-anticipated ski trip, awaits. But he has little hope that sleep will take him quickly.

 

* * *

 

 

“Winchester-elder and Novak, up front,” Coach Henriksen yells over the ambient chatter among the group. If the cold—and hell it’s pretty fucking cold for February—wasn’t making him shove his fists in his coat pockets, all eyes turning on him and Cas as they drag their shit toward Henriksen makes Dean wish he could hide in his pockets.

As they walk, Dean shoots a glance to his side. Castiel is looking back, eyes wide and bluer than ever against the red flush of his cheeks. Dean thinks that’s the cold, but the shy smile Cas gives him makes his stomach do backflips. Too suddenly, Cas must remember all the attention on them and drops his gaze, but the smile dissolves slower.

By the time that they reach Henriksen, Dean sees the coach looking between them with a cocked brow and an overall skeptical expression painting his face. He wipes the curve where his lips turn to chin, eyes dancing back and forth between them. “I thought about this a lot, boys. I’m not changing the room assignments from last month because I got too damn much to do,” he says, voice lowering as he looks directly at Castiel. “And unless you tell me otherwise, boy, I’m not changing the rooms because you’re an omega.”

Castiel shakes his head, “You don’t need to, I trust Dean.”

Dean preens under the emphatic confession, at least until Henriksen looks to him. “I knew your father in school, Winchester. I know he struggled and still does. There’s gotta be a change and it could start with boys—alphas—like you.”

“So…I have your vote of confidence?” Dean attempts lightheartedly.

Henriksen shoves a pair of hotel room keys into his hand, and grips Dean with a fist. “Hell no. Even if you were the running for president I wouldn’t vote for you. But I’ll be damned if you do any funny business under my watch, you got that?”

Dean flashes a smile. “Got it coach.”

Castiel is quick to evade their group, his body quivering under the weight of his backpack and his ski gear on his back. He adjusts the straps on his shoulders, walking faster. Dean huffs an air that comes out of his lips like a cloud of smoke, struggling to catch up with his snowboard slung over his shoulder, his duffle on the other. “Wait up,” he calls. Cas does slow down, but doesn’t look at Dean the whole way into the ski lodge, or on the elevator ride. Dean pulls his lips tight, keeping his questions sealed behind them until they are in the safety of their room. They both drop their things on the floor, and then Dean bursts. “What’s wrong, man?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Cas says to him tightly, straining his arms over his head, stretching them out. Dean watches, momentarily mesmerized as his jacket and shirt rise to expose a strip of pale stomach. The surge of warmth in his belly is enough to bring him closer, catching Cas by surprise when he lays his hands comfortably on his hips. Dean says nothing, but raises his brows. Really? he means to say, and Cas huffs frustratedly as he steps into Dean’s easy embrace. “Every time I think things are going to be okay, people stare.”

Cas’s nose is pressed into Dean’s neck. Dean knows what it feels like to be scented, and he can’t decide if he’s more turned on or comforted. Given Cas’s fragile state, he falls into the latter category. He rubs his fingers into Cas’s hips circling his hipbones. “Of course people stare, you’re beautiful.”

“You know what I mean.”

Dean sighs heavily and regretfully pulls Cas away by the cheeks. He holds his friend’s face, cradles it with all the gentility the calloused things can offer. “I know,” he murmurs. “But it’ll get better. It is getting better. You heard what Henriksen heard I mean… I wasn’t expecting that from him.”

“Me either. But, the smallest part of me thinks he put you in here because he doesn’t want a…a rape to happen under his watch.”

The mere thought of anyone laying a hand on Castiel sends a wrack of cold down his spine and Dean finds himself gripping Cas’s face a little too tight. He forces himself to relax, and pull away completely. “No one’s gonna hurt you.”

Castiel shoots him a glare, and runs his hands up and down his arms like he could feel Dean’s cold rage. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true!”

“You can’t protect me my entire life, Dean, you won’t be with me for every aching second until I die,” he goes on cooly. “You can’t possibly make that promise, let alone keep it.”

“I want to,” Dean mutters. His tongue burns with words that he wants to say, but Cas is too upset now to take him seriously. He huffs a laugh—who would take him seriously? He’s always been the dumb alpha with no mom and an omega father, only good for lacrosse and snowboarding. Castiel is right, he really can’t make a promise to protect him. But one thing is true: he does want to be with Cas for every second of every day because when he’s not with Cas, he aches. He aches for his voice and his understanding ear. How can he possibly convey that without sounding like the idiot he is?

They are destined to miscommunicate, it seems, as Cas interprets Dean’s insecure laughter as being directed toward him. “I’m glad my worries are amusing.” He goes for his ski gear then, grabbing his back and strapping it over his shoulder before burning a farewell glare back at Dean. “I’m going to go ski now.”

“Cas…”

“Don’t.”

The door to their room open and closes with an unnecessarily loud slam. Dean kicks his duffle and then drops his whole body onto the mattress. After a few minutes of all but shouting into his pillow, he finds the remote. Cupcake Wars is on, which is a sign to stay in bed in and of itself.

 

* * *

 

“You’re being stupid, Clarence, and stupid isn’t pretty.”

Castiel only turns his head, not daring to move his body as the lift edges higher and higher above the ground. White is all that’s below, and he doesn’t want to simply fall into it unprepared. “You would know,” he bites back, teeth chattering with the retort. “But  please, enlighten me, what did I do?”

“It’s written all over your face: you and Dean had it out. Why wouldn’t pretty boy alpha be riding up here with you, otherwise?”

The obviously rhetorical question leaves Castiel at a loss, but only for a moment. “Because you’re my friend, of course.”

Meg openly scoffs at that, leaning forward in the lift to peer between her legs. “Yeah, bud, I’m gonna let you stew in that bullshit for a little while. This is my stop.”

“It’s too early,” Castiel says quickly, looking down as well. They are not at the optimum incline for a safe fall; he knows that Meg has a penchant for danger, but he really doesn’t want to see her hurt. “If you fall now and break your ankles, I’m not going to carry you back.”

The empty threat is enough to make her pause, and lean back. Her head falls against the metal bar holding their bench to the belt, chin tilted to her left so that she looks directly at him. “Listen, Clarence, you are my friend. And I know we bug the shit out of each other, but we also don’t want to see each other hurt, right?”

“Alright, I would carry you if you broke a bone,” Castiel concedes, hoping that the superficial response would derail the impending heart to heart. When Meg is the one who initiates these sorts of conversations, there is no mercy, no truth left concealed. And Castiel very much wants to push all his troubles under a rug, for now.

It doesn’t work, as he feared. “Earlier this week,” she continues. “I was going to tell you there was a way to stop a lot of the harassment you’re afraid of getting. Dean’s the way.”

Castiel looks at her, searching her weary expression. Meg is not often as loose with her gaze as this—so soft, open as if her own secrets lay just beneath the surface of her skin. It makes Castiel reminisce—since he’s been doing a lot of that as of late—to the birth of their friendship. She was nothing like this. Meg Masters was fierce and unbidden strength is what made Castiel admire her so much. Yet, he doesn’t lose his admiration as he sees unexpected femininity dripping on her expression. Almost motherly, but not in the way his mother was. Like he imagines good mothers are; maybe Dean’s mother was.

“I didn’t understand you then,” he replies. “And I don’t understand you now.”

Meg nods, understanding. “I know you love him.” The bluntness sends Castiel reeling, silently, but she goes on. “So why not mate with him?”

“What?” Castiel blurts, blinking wildly.

“Mated omegas are better off, Cas. There is a sanctity in that bond… there would be repercussions if someone violated that, or you more specifically,” she goes on, “It would help.”

“I will not mate with Dean,” he bites out harshly. The mate bond is—it is a fantasy, at best. Most couples do not even mate, because the cost of separation is often insanity. Castiel thinks of his own parents; they were only married, not mated, but if they were he doesn’t think that their unhappiness would have been evaded. It could have forced them to stay together, forever miserable.

He simply cannot tie himself to Dean that way.

Except, he could, a small voice whispers in him. But he cannot ask Dean to reciprocate.

“It was only a suggestion,” she reminds him. “But please, just think about it. What you and Dean have is a once in a lifetime thing. If you can’t see it, then it’s because you aren’t letting yourself.” Meg’s words take on their usual curtness, and she looks away. “See you, Clarence,” he murmurs and then slides off the edge of the lift. She only plummets a few feet, angling her skis into the incline, and Castiel remains stunned as she shreds across the white slope. He remains still, finding that he missed his opportunity to fall with her. He waits for the lift to make its second rotation.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite his efforts to ignore the fact, Dean never comes down for dinner. Castiel stays glued to Meg’s side as he ignores that, and the much larger elephant in the room: her recommendation to mate with Dean.

The restaurant within the lodge buzzes with chatter, a pleasant ambiance to dull the bothersome thoughts plaguing him. It allows him to eat his dinner without too much anxiety making him too nauseous to do so.

He doesn’t expect Sam Winchester to plop his plate on the table in front of him. Meg curses to herself, but feigns annoyance rather than admit she was startled by his arrival.

“My brilliant brother is going on hunger strike,” Sam begins frankly, and then pauses to stuff a forkful of lettuce—Dean would be having a stroke if he were forced to bear witness to his vegetarianism. He chews slowly before raising his eyes to Castiel’s. “You got anything to do with that?”

Castiel squirms under the accusatory glare of the young alpha. They aren’t the best of friends, he concedes, at least since the time a few weeks ago that he walked in on a heated kissing session with Dean. Though their first encounter—on the first ski trip, actually—was pleasant enough, Sam seems to be protective of his older brother. He can’t imagine he’s faring the news of Castiel’s true nature very well.

“We had a disagreement,” Castiel says.

“A disagreement?” Meg echoes, and Castiel cocks his head to glare at her. 

Sam doesn’t like the answer, so he leans across the table and evenly states, “You can’t hurt my brother, he cares about you a lot, okay?”

That is cause for Castiel’s thoughts to stutter. He bites his lower lip, gnaws on the already raw skin as he considers Sam and all his serious exterior. “What do you mean?”

“You have a lot of power over him. I know you’re into him, but he’s really into you.”

“I’m really into him too, I can assure you,” Castiel snaps back. He doesn’t even recognize the defensive vein in his voice until Meg’s hand touches his knee under the table. She squeezes it, and he looks to her—her eyebrows are raised, and she shakes her head once. He looks back to Sam and sighs as he wipes a hand over his face. “I care about Dean very much, more than I can make sense of sometimes…”

“Then talk to him,” Sam urges. “If he’s skipping dinner, he’s hurting. Or he’s ultimately pissed at you.”

“Or both,” Meg volunteers quietly.

“Whose side are you on?” Castiel huffs and shoves away from the table. Sam stands up too, and pulls a white styrofoam to-go box from his lap. He hands it to Castiel. “What is this?”

Sam offers him a small smile, which strikes him as odd. His emotions are even harder to interpret than Dean’s. “It’s dinner. Well, dessert technically. For Dean there is no difference.”

Castiel cracks open the box and looks inside. “Pie…?”

“If you want an olive branch, that’s the best one you’re gonna get.” 

 

* * *

 

 

He struggles to get the hotel room open. With the to-go box balanced in one hand and a particularly uncooperative keycard in the other, Castiel curses to himself. Thankfully (or maybe not) Dean hears him fumbling at the door and opens it from the inside.

It’s only by some miracle that Castiel doesn’t drop the box in his hand, when his breath is so completely stolen by the site in front of him. Dean’s hair is tousled, firm lines softened by a gray hoodie and black sweatpants. Still, somehow, he is indescribably sexy; Castiel finds himself licking his lips as he searches his mind for an adequate greeting. Well, he needs to get the pie out of his hands before the stupid trembling things drop it—so it shoves it forward and murmurs, “I brought you dinner.”

Instead of replying, Dean accepts the box and walks back inside the room. Eyes taken off him, Castiel allows himself to breathe. Swallowing, he follows in Dean’s path, and sits down on the edge of his bed (which is the one that doesn’t seem to possess rumpled sheets and blankets and a pillow fortress to be reckoned with).

It seems both of them are at an impasse, neither willing to speak, nor reach out to make the apology. Castiel has an inkling that he should be the one to make it, but the lump in his throat prevents him from doing so. The to-go box with the pie is left ignored, unopened, on the nightstand between their beds. Dean has resumed what Castiel can only assume Dean has been doing all day—watching Food Network. He is quite the masochist.

Castiel gives up on just sitting still and staring at the wall and decides to get ready for bed. A hot shower may be the remedy for his wayward conscience. He goes to his bag to retrieve his pajamas and toiletries, and then recedes into the bathroom without a word.

He spends a lot of time under the faucet, soothed by the continuous stream of water against his face, his chest, his back. Castiel struggles the most in these times of aloneness, when he is left to battle his own introspection. As he massages the knots from his shoulders, he has a thought that he would be happy if he spent the rest of his life with Dean. The thought is staggering to his mind, but his body loosens as he closes his eyes and imagines that every day he could have the opportunity to make Dean smile. And if he were given that chance…he might take it.

Shifting beneath the spray, he squirts shampoo into his palm and then lathers it at his roots. He massages his scalp and breathes in the steamy air around him. He is only eighteen years old, and he’s found his true mate. Not the fictional kind in the movies, that sweep helpless omegas off their feet and shelter them in a kingdom of fortitude. He has found a mate who sees him as he is and treats him no differently. Dean doesn’t need to save him, though he tries—but it’s easier to see that those attempts are not actions of superiority, but of love (or, at least, some other strong emotion). Castiel is his equal, and he can barely stomach the thought of abandoning what they have cultivated because of his pride, his doubts.

Sudden resolve to wash those down the drain along with the water and suds comes over him. It causes him to step out and quickly dry himself down with a towel and then slip into his fresh clothes. When he opens the door to the bathroom, the steam rolls out behind him, hanging on his eyelashes as he blinks. When he surveys the room, he sees Dean with his legs dangling off the side of the bed, and using the nightstand as a table off which he enthusiastically eats the pie Castiel brought him.

Biting his lip at the sight, Castiel sit on the edge of his own bed, across from Dean. “Is it good?” Dean doesn’t look up, but nods as he chews. Castiel smiles, but pained that Dean still won’t address him. “You know, it was supposed to be an olive branch.”

Dean’s brows furrow and he swallows. “Huh?”

“An olive branch,” he says again. “It’s actually an allusion from the bible, when a dove gave Noah an olive branch following the flood. It was a symbol of peace, and a promise.”

That captures Dean’s attention, and his green eyes finally—finally—raise to meet his own. “A promise of what?”

“That I never want to hurt you again,” he replies, fingers squeezing his blankets to keep him from wringing them so nervously like he would like to. Castiel leans forward, inspired by the sudden softness of Dean’s features. “I know you want to protect me. I see that it’s something you do for the people you love, not just because I’m an omega.” Dean nods, agreeing, but doesn’t reply. Castiel uncomfortably edges forward, finding that the distance between them isn’t helping. He stands up and does something that his body both loves and loathes—he kneels at Dean’s feet. It is a show of submissiveness, but he rationalizes that he is not submitting to Dean, but the extraordinary feelings he has for the man. “I don’t know how to show love,” he admits. “I never saw love, never was encouraged to feel anything. But I believe I know the feeling, when I have it.”

Castiel reaches for Dean’s hand, which is currently a fist in his lap, and grasps it between his own. He warms the flesh, and then leans forward so that his lips brush against the tightened knuckles. Dean does relax his fist under Castiel’s lips, which is a good sign, but he still doesn’t say anything.

He flinches when he feels Dean’s other hand skim the skin of his neck, moving up until he’s cradling the back of Castiel’s head. His fingers tangle in the wet mop of his hair, while the other hand flips under Castiel’s touch to grab him by the wrist. He doesn’t expect Dean to tug him up out of his position and into his lap; nor does he expect to feel a flurry of kisses across his jaw as he adjusts Castiel in his lap.

“Tell me what you’re sayin’…” Dean murmurs against his neck, the vibration of his voice causing his pulse to stutter. Castiel grabs his shoulders, steadies himself, and pushes his mouth to the corner of Dean’s, but doesn’t kiss him.

“It means,” he tries, astounded that he is already out of breath. “I love you.”

Dean growls and slides his hands down Castiel’s waist, settles his fingers deep into his hips, and then pulls Castiel down deep into his lap. They both moan, mixed breaths and voices in the small gap between them, as their groins grind together. “Say it again.”

“I love you.” The words come out rough as Castiel pivot his hips down into Dean’s. He kisses Dean’s lips, barely. “And I want to be yours.”

“Mine?”

Castiel nods, and that is all the permission Dean needs to kiss him again, this time deeper—much deeper. Castiel slides his hands up Dean’s shoulders and cups his face, dropping his chin slightly so that the kiss can deepen. While he cards his hands through Dean’s hair, Dean takes no time in prodding his tongue into Castiel’s mouth, mapping his pallet, bravely brushing his tongue along Castiel’s. Along with the intoxication of touch is Dean’s scent, that same salty smell that acts as an anchor. No doubts, no panic, not with Dean here: sliding his hands underneath Castiel’s tshirt and skating his fingernails up his chest.

It happens so quickly—their clothes are off and Dean successfully flips Castiel on his back, he is kissing down his sternum, slowly but surely mouthing his stomach and tasting it like it’s covered in whipped cream. Oh—that’s a thought. Future ideas aside, Dean comes to a sudden halt in his ministrations when he reaches the waistband of Castiel’s boxers.

“Are we going too fast?” Dean asks lowly, voice humming against the sensitive skin of his stomach.

Castiel shakes his head. “Not for me, I’ve been waiting…”

“Waiting for what?”

“This,” he answers simply, dazed and too tired to look at Dean, so he lets his head fall against the mattress and stares up at the ceiling. “I imagine most wait their whole lives to find the one…their true mate…”

Castiel immediately freezes, wishing he could hold his tongue, because Dean is off him in an instant. No, no, no, he should have said nothing! He should have just let Dean have him. Maybe his idea of a mate differs, maybe Castiel is not an adequate mate. Rejection hits him, makes him close his eyes and try not to scream.

“Cas,” Dean says into the silence. “Cas, please open your eyes, look at me?” He touches Castiel’s cheek softly, and he feels Dean’s breath above him. Breathes his scent, still calm and loving and note tinged with hate or rejection. He is confused, and that confusion is what prompts him to open his eyes. Dean smiles softly, but his brows are furrowed tight. He visibly swallows. “Do you mean that?”

“I did.”

“I thought I was the only one who felt that way.”

It is Castiel’s turn to furrow his brows, especially as Dean leans down to kiss him chastely. When they break, Castiel murmurs, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Dean says, cheeks flushing a beautiful color of red. “I wanna be with you. I can’t explain it, but Cas you’re the one…we may be crazy…”

“We are,” Castiel confirms with a shake of his head.

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, but, it’s a good kind of crazy. The kind of crazy that makes me want to, I don’t know, someday marry you…” He blushes even deeper at that, blinks in shock that he said that. Castiel’s emotions run along the same vein. “Shit, how old am I? I just know that when people mate, it’s a promise. An olive branch?”

Swallowing, Castiel nods. The analogy isn’t quite right, but the sentiment warms his heart. “Were your parents mated?”

The question makes Dean smile sadly. “Yeah.”

“Did they love each other?”

He nods. “So much.”

Castiel reads it, too much, between the lines of Dean’s smile. He wants to wipe away the pain that plagues his expression, so he does, by dragging Dean down to his lips. Now this feels like a promise, when Dean opens his mouth wide and envelops them both in an all-consuming kiss. It isn’t long until they are resuming their previous course.

Dean spends much time kissing along the latitude of his stomach along his boxers. Though Castiel was already aroused with a hardened cock, it’s when Dean begins to peel off his underwear that he feels the shocking cold drip of slick come from inside him. He suddenly reels back to the torturous five days he spent in heat—the continuous river of slick and all the need that came with it. He reminds himself that this is not the same, that he wants this. Dean must sense him freezing up, as he pauses to tell him, “You’re so beautiful, Cas, want you so bad.”

The words by themselves make Castiel groan and lift his hips, so Dean can slide his underwear off. Cold air hits his dick, and Dean breathes over it. The contrast of hot and cold makes him squirm, but not as much as Dean’s fingers gliding down him. This can’t be normal, he thinks; male omega’s penises are often treated like an unfortunate defect, not an androgynous zone, yet Dean is here about to jack him off like there isn’t a slick-ready hole asking to be penetrated.

Castiel thinks he likes the attention Dean is giving, but then there is that tickle in his belly that tells him a hand job won’t do the trick.

“Dean,” he breathes, the name choked out as Dean pushes a closed fist down Castiel’s cock. He shudders. “Need you…”

“Right here, baby,” he murmurs, taking a torturously slow pull again. Castiel wants to scream, but can’t vocalize what he wants. He spreads his thighs wider and lifts himself up. His hole is hit by cool air and immediately flares open. “Shit,” he hears Dean curse and let go of Castiel, only briefly. He hitches his hands on the underside of Castiel’s thighs and lifts him up a little. “God, you’re just leaking everywhere.”

Castiel nods and watches as Dean appraises him, beautiful trimmed chest flushed and a tent on his own boxers. He licks his lips and arches his hips even higher in Dean’s hold. “Please,” he mutters. “Please take me. Mate me.”

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean curses. He lets Castiel go for a moment, reaching over him to get a few pillows. He wedges one under Cas’s neck so he can look down between their bodies, and another one under his back so neither of them have to strain to expose his entrance.

Castiel gasps when he feels Dean’s first finger slide into him. It is an incredibly odd sensation, a craving he never knew he had until Dean had sated it. He is so tight around the finger, but still it doesn’t feel like enough. So he asks, “More.”

Dean complies, adding another finger. This time the stretch feels more invasive, but he forces himself to relax, to swallow any residual shame about what he is. After all, Dean is being so very tender, one hand rubbing circles into the crease of his thigh while the other starts to pump two fingers in an out of him.

When Dean gets all the way down to the knuckle and the feeling starts to become pleasant, he adds a third. Now accustomed to the stretch, Castiel finds the pleasure in it—being filled up.

“De—Dean, I’m ready,” he breathes raggedly, arching his back and spreading his thighs wider than he thought he could. “Please fuck me, please.”

“Jesus,” Dean mutters and pulls out his fingers. The absence of them leaves Castiel whimpering and overly aware of how gone he already is, how close to the brink Dean has brought him with just his hands. He can’t imagine where his mind and body could go with Dean inside him.

Thankfully he has the forethought to look down his chest, just as Dean is shedding his boxers away. He is beautiful, his knot engorged and swollen. He almost feels guilty for not making an attempt to service Dean in someway, to alleviate the angry red blood gathered there, but concedes that there was not much he could do with Dean fingering him so thoroughly.

Seeing Castiel’s appraisal, Dean smirks and gestures to himself. “Like what you see?”

“Very much.” Castiel lays his head back down and spreads out his arms. “I want you now.”

“So pushy,” Dean tuts, but it’s half-hearted and any feigned judgment is short lived. Dean crawls back on the bed, thigh between Castiel’s legs—right up against his dick, in fact—as they kiss. It’s soft and languid, easing in closer and closer until—yes. 

He feels the head of Dean pressing against his entrance and, knowing to whom it belongs, he opens up easily. Dean barely pushes in, and Castiel is starting to think he is being a tease.

“You gotta be patient,” Dean implores, “and I will make it really good for you baby. Good for my mate.”

Castiel can hardly protest Dean’s slowness when he uses such a term of endearment. He actually whimpers to hear Dean call him that, his mate, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Remaining pliant under the new pressure, Castiel makes himself breathe slowly, steadily as he struggles not to force himself down onto Dean before either of them are ready. After all, seeing Dean slowly slipping inside him is nothing compare to the slow, aching stretch of Dean filling him up from the inside out.

Somehow, Dean continues to have his wits about him enough to stretch up to kiss Castiel’s lips. For him, however, the pleasure is nothing short of intoxicating, which leaves him panting mindless mutterings against Dean’s mouth, all of which he swallows with his burning kiss.

When Dean stops entering him, Castiel opens his eyes, more alert. He catalogues every sensation: the thick odor of alpha arousal flooding his nose, the feeling of being split in half at his entrance, and a pressure deep inside him that he didn’t know existed. Is Dean that far inside him? he wonders numbly, but the thoughts are derailed when Dean thrusts only an inch or so deeper, pressing deeper into that blindingly beautiful spot. Castiel cries out as he feels something he can only describe as electric originate from that spot, and it shoots all through his body and up into his limbs, and make his lips numb as Dean pulls away from the kiss.

“Are you okay?” Castiel nods, but the answer doesn’t suffice. Dean must use one arm to suspend his body above Castiel, but spares his other to touch his face tenderly. “You gotta tell me if this is good or bad, I can stop, if you need to, it’s okay.”

“Don’t!” is his immediate response to the suggestion. He begins to feel Dean start to inch out, despite his own hissing, and Castiel realizes he has been misunderstood. He may overstep himself, when he grabs Dean’s backside, nails digging into the tender flesh, and pulls Dean back inside of him. Dean’s breath hitches, and he meets the omega’s eyes. “Do not stop, Dean,“ Castiel instructs forcefully.

Dean stammers an unintelligible response, but does as he’s told. He pivots his hips in wide ovals, adjusting Castiel to the weight of him, of the breath. When he is certain Castiel will not break, he pulls his hips back—only to snap them forward again. The next few minutes are a frenzy of Dean doing the same repeatedly, striking the bundle of tender, electric pleasure inside Castiel with each thrust. 

If Castiel were not already lost on the sensations, he would be on Dean’s scent. The pheromones, the odor of desire drips onto his skin with every bead of sweat that flicks of Dean’s body. It mixes with his own sweat, the scent of his own need filling his nose—

That is when he realizes that Dean can smell him. Through the fog of pleasure, he remembers that he didn’t put on deodorant after his shower. Even so, Dean hadn’t shown that he was distracted or swayed by the open scent of omega, at least until they started spiraling toward this moment. The rightness of Dean smelling him as he truly is, right now, is somehow more intimate than a swelling dick inside him. What he is ashamed of, Dean embraces—not only craves, but adores him for all he is.

The revelation adds to the sizzling warmth in his belly, upon which begins to build a pulsing, incremental glide toward a white, blinding abyss. Dean’s name is on his tongue; his eyes are open, searching for Dean’s, and finds them wide and blown like the meeting of them could send them both off the brink. Mindful that he is so close, he edges his hands around Dean’s waist and pulls them up, pulls them together so that Dean can rut against him while their chests are pressed. It won’t take much more, a few more thrusts, so he glides his hands up Dean’s back, around his arms, and then laces his fingers together behind Dean’s neck.

And then he bares his own.

This is one of the most evident reasons people don’t simply mate anymore; the sealing of the bond requires a mark for all to see.  Castiel is happy to bear it, the reasons for that surprisingly not for the reasons Meg suggested. The burning slice of Dean splitting him apart, despite his gentleness, allows Castiel to feel a sense of belonging. He should loathe the idea of being forever claimed, given his upbringing, but he has always wanted to belong to someone, he thinks. Maybe he never specifically desired this level of intimacy with that bond until his first heat, but the inkling to be someone’s resonated after years of feelings so alone.

He pulls Dean down into his shoulder, his neck still vulnerable to the alpha as his nose buries into his pulse point. He moans, as Castiel knows this is where his scent is strongest, spreading out into the air for Dean to breath which each ecstatic beat of his heart.

The position has Castiel’s mouth against Dean’s ear, which he sucks into his mouth uncertainly. Dean moans, so Castiel bites down with his teeth lightly before letting go. “Make me yours,” he purrs into Dean’s ears. “Mate me.”

The command pulls a very desirable sound from the alphas lips, a sound that doesn’t stop for a long minute. As Castiel feels his entrance swell up, he realizes that he also permitted Dean to knot him and oh—if he hadn’t felt full and complete before, he certainly does now. Dean shudders as he thrusts become staggered, broken much like the sounds that push from his throat, and soon enough that knot is swelling up against him and Castiel bursts—coming without his own volition, flaring and constricting around Dean’s knot all at once.

At the height of his ecstasy, Castiel cries out, and then does so again with a burning shock when Dean clenches his teeth deep into Castiel’s shoulder, and then he comes against the bleeding mark of his bite. Castiel sees Dean licking at the wound from the corner of his eye, apologetic and worried, so he cards his fingers gently through the alphas hair. “It’s okay, it doesn’t hurt,” he whispers, voice wrecked and strained. Dean looks up with furrowed brows, unbelieving. Castiel chuckles. “Okay, it hurts a…a little, but that was wonderful timing.” He offers Dean a smile, and that must satiate his worry for the time being.

Dean rolls over in the bed so as to free Castiel from the weight on his chest. It wasn’t all that bothersome, having Dean over him, but he does breathe easier for it. But he immediately wishes Dean’s touch so Castiel tucks himself against the side of his body, throwing one leg over the alpha’s as he lays an arm over his chest.

Between the two of them, Dean should have the most experience with pillow talk (he knows that the alpha often danced around with several beta girls over the years) but still yet he remains mostly quiet. His eyes are trained on the ceiling, while Castiel’s are trained on him.

“What are you thinking?” he asks Dean quietly. His voice brings him out of his reverie, causing him to blink a few times, but he doesn’t turn his eyes to Castiel. His heart clenches as he begins to doubt himself—what they had done. Was Dean not himself, when he smelled Castiel as he truly is? It’s often said that there is no better drug than the smell of an omega in want, and Castiel touches the bite on his shoulder, wondering if it was a mistake on Dean’s part. “Do you regret…”

“No,” Dean answers, and Castiel’s breath hitches. The sound of it prompts Dean to crane his head. Relief washes over him as Castiel sees only tenderness in the eyes he loves so much. “I was thinking… I want you to mark me?”

That causes Castiel to arch a brow, but he doesn’t recoil from the idea. “That’s rather…unconventional.” Omegas are the ones to be claimed, therefore they bear the mating mark. That is how it has always been, and even mutual marking is considered slightly taboo in the progressive circles.

“What about us isn’t unconventional?” Dean counters.

“Actually, our relationship is rather conventional, if the fact we are mated is any indicator—”

The push of Dean’s lips against his stuns him, leaves his train of thought derailed and forgotten. Dean leans over him, one hand pushing up the side of his neck, locking in place beneath Castiel’s ear as his fingers tangle in his hair. “You’re such a smartass,” he says into Castiel’s mouth, smiling.

Castiel hums in response and pushes back, surprising them both when he has Dean pushed against the mattress, straddling him in a shockingly dominant display of affection. Dean’s eyes begin to blow wide once more, which is cause for Castiel to smile, even if pridefully so. He leans down as if he is going to kiss the alpha, but stops short of sealing their lips.

“Where do you want your mark?” he asks simply, hiding the strain and arousal in his voice.

“Anywhere,” Dean breathes out, leaning up to catch Castiel’s lips, but the omega pulls back teasingly with a smirk. “Everywhere, fuck, please, Cas. Want everyone to know I’m yours…”

A swell of heat rises in his chest, warm affection tickling in his throat. Conventionality be damned, Dean wants to belong to him? Castiel more than empathizes. Careful and calculating, Castiel drops his mouth to Dean’s shoulder, a place that could only be hidden by a scarf, and spreads his teeth.

To each other, they would always belong.


End file.
